Freedom Day
by GrimGravy
Summary: After recovering from a botched mission in the Middle East, a new recruit joins Team Rainbow eager for a chance at redemption. But the attack on Bartlett proved that his failure had more consequences than he thought. Now, it's a race against time to stop Rainbow's new enemy from enacting their next plan: a day of infamy the world will never forget. (Story Completed)
1. Prologue

**Preface** : "Freedom Day" is my idea of a gritty, Campaign-style narrative for Siege, told from the perspectives of Team Rainbow and the White Masks. This story is _loosely_ inspired by Rainbow Six: Patriots, because part of me still wishes that the game got made (with Siege as the multiplayer component). Other sources of inspiration are military/police-themed films and video games. I'll be using most of the game's maps as backdrops and  there will be a bunch of original characters thrown into the mix. Oh, and any semblance with real-life persons, living or dead, is coincidental etc. etc.

I hope to deliver the same quality of content as I did in my previous stories. Have a pleasant read! :)

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

* * *

 _"Men fight for liberty and win it with hard knocks. Their children, brought up easy, let it slip away again, poor fools. And their grandchildren are once more slaves..."_

 _\- D. H. Lawrence_

...

"The Border", Somewhere in the Middle East  
1105 hours

...

Ethan Mallory had been awake for more than 24 hours. He was exhausted. If he closed his eyes long enough, he'd fall asleep kneeling with his EBR slung by his waist. But there was thirty minutes left on the timetable, according to his wristwatch. He peered out of the second-floor balcony, facing the Border Control's western exit, scanning for possible threats with his rifle. He estimated another hour of dull waiting, before he could finally leave this place.

Grumbling aside, at least he was wearing something comfy for a change: a purple shirt, a pair of khakis, a shemagh around his neck, and his favorite running boots to keep his feet fresh. With the weather outside, he'd be sweating like a sinner in church if he donned his usual combat gear. And if it weren't for the chest rig, the holstered Glock, and the silenced marksman rifle in his hands, he'd easily pass off as another foreigner stuck in a hostile country.

 _Two more days, Ethan. Two more days..._

After this mission, he would fly back to DC, sort his papers, and take the job in the UK. It was offered to him by a middle-aged black woman, probably a big wig from the Pentagon, more than a month ago. A spot in a classified, multi-national program based out of the England, with a salary more than twice his current paygrade. It sounded dodgy, obviously. But with the alimony, the mortgage, his mother's medical bills, and his daughter's education to worry about, he made the most practical choice.

He just needed to survive this tour.

"Busker Two-Four, this is Blackjack One-Two.", he called into his earpiece. "We're at the rendezvous, second-floor security office, HVI is in custody. What's your status, over?"

A moment later, his radio buzzed with a woman's voice.

"Blackjack, this is Busker. We're still en route to the AO. We got reports of heavy fighting and RPGs at the capital, so we're circling to the mountains. ETA two-zero mikes, how copy?"

"Roger that Busker, we'll sit tight. Double-time it, will ya? Over and out."

With that, Ethan released the call button with a frown on his face. As if the day couldn't get any worse.

There were throngs of people massing to the border, lines of vehicles weaving through a long gridlock, and a mess of shouting and horn honking. The civil war between the loyalists and separatists broke out last year, yet the exodus of civilians never stopped. Towering above the crowd were loudspeakers at the Border Control, shouting instructions in English and Arabic to keep some semblance of order. It was hard not to feel for them all, as much as the American preferred to mask his emotions, but there was nothing that he could do for them either.

His ten-man team was fortifying their position at the security office, using makeshift wooden barricades and metal grates as impromptu protection. One man overturned a desk to use as cover for his M249 by the window, pointed outwards, while another created a sniper's nest facing the southern valley. In the meantime, the office staff kept themselves busy informing all civilians to vacate the main building's premises. To make way for a 'high-profile emergency medical evacuation', as the cover story went. The loudspeakers played a looping advisory.

 _"For your safety, you need to evacuate the building. Leave all luggage behind. You will be able to retrieve your belongings from a customs agent..."_

Operation Witch Hunt was a compartmentalized undertaking; only the local government and the Border Control's top security staff knew what was up. For almost a month, Ethan and his team had been kicking down doors, ransacking houses, and shooting a fair number of people, all to help the CIA capture a guy named Mohandes. 'The Engineer'. About five-foot-eleven, tan skinned, black hair, a dark chin curtain, and a medium build. A terrorist-for-hire who sold discount biochemical weapons to ruthless fanatics in the Eastern Hemisphere. Uncle Sam wanted him bagged and brought back alive. Ethan's team spent most of yesterday to finish the first half of that job; the next step was to fly the prisoner to friendly territory. A bunch of hired guns were on their way to prevent that from happening.

"Any word on those birds, Ace?", team leader Gabe DeWynne called out from the security room.

"20 minutes, Gamble.", Ethan turned around. "They're flying around the capital to reach us. Sounded like a shitfest over there..."

The other man nodded in response, nonchalantly. Gabriel 'Gamble' DeWynne, 36 years old, a native of Aurora, Colorado, married with two kids. The dark-skinned man wore plainclothes under his tactical gear like the rest of the team, except for the blue-and-orange Denver Broncos cap that graced his shaved head. He firmly held a custom Mk18 assault rifle across his chest. Calm and collected, he was the perfect foil to his brown-haired friend. They've served together for a little more than ten years.

This month also marked the fourth time they were working with one Emily Jacobsen.

"…I'm gonna ask you again, asshole. Who bought your stash of Compound Z?!", she continued her interrogation of Mohandes. "WHO DID YOU SELL THEM TO?!"

"… _Mo radi oqlk_... (…I don't want to tell you...)", the handcuffed man mumbled in his native tongue. There was no language barrier between them.

"A name!", she yelled, manhandling him. "Give. Me. A Name!"

Red-haired, pale skin, around five-foot-nine, most likely in her early to mid-thirties. Emily was the case officer running the show. The smooth, Upper-Midwest accent pointed to a privileged upbringing. And judging by her intimate knowledge of Army codes and brevity, she must have been a former SIGINT tech as well. She donned a black hijab on top of her dark shirt and ash-brown cargoes. The normally taciturn woman was rather verbal with Mohandes, who was sitting on a chair with his head lowered, dirtied and bruised.

The other soldiers could tell that she was about to completely lose her cool. Normally, she got people to sing using her calm voice and icy-blue eyes, or the Beretta M9 on her hip holster. This time however, she was frantic, almost desperate, to get their prisoner to spill the beans. But that was because she had been working on this case for two years. She was close to unraveling this bastard's supply chain and clientele. Failure here meant millions of lives would be at risk. Worse, a rogue weapon would be let loose in the wild for every bloodthirsty psychopath to get their hands on.

Developed by the British after the First World War, Compound Z was a volatile and toxic concoction that, officially, never saw military use outside of Porton Down's testing grounds. While it was quite similar to Sulfur Mustard, especially in terms of color, Compound Z was less potent and deadly. On the other hand, it was also easier to store and manufacture, and this made the toxin incredibly enticing to terrorist groups with big ambitions. With the right knowhow and resources, Compound Z could be made from inert chemicals as a stand-alone dirty bomb or even as a template for deadlier, far more terrifying cocktails.

"He's not gonna talk, ma'am.", Gabe confided Emily. "I suggest we let our friends in Jizan handle him..."

"Gamble, I need to know the buyers of those canisters, _right_ _now_!", the woman insisted. "They could be on their way to New York for all we know, and this guy is our only lead!"

Ethan overheard the yelling and shook his head. He stroked the brown stubble, pensively, with his Kevlar gloves.

 _Lady, we have bigger problems to worry about..._

The team didn't have much backup. An armed Predator drone on overwatch duty or a cruiser from the Fifth Fleet would've been nice, but the Pentagon denied their requests. The American public was already stingy about the US presence in this region. They would probably lose their collective marbles if they learned that their President had deployed a bunch of Special Forces guys to this country almost a month ago. As far as the brass was concerned, there was no such thing as an 'Operation Witch Hunt'. Ethan absolutely despised this bureaucratic bullshit. To think that he actually spent fifteen years putting up with 'political backlash', 'international pressure', and 'the White House's infinite wisdom'…

"You okay, brother?", Gabe asked Ethan, who looked deep in thought. "You look like shit..."

"I'm fine. Just sucking wind is all…"

"That bad, huh?"

"Nah...", he smiled sarcastically. "...I mean, at least the Broncos didn't win last night!"

The friends exchanged laughs, recalling the incredibly stupid bets they made while they were out in the field, dodging danger at every turn. Gabe was the only other person in the room who knew about Ethan's plans to leave the unit. They had a good run together. Nonetheless, the other man felt bad about leaving his friend for greener pastures.

"One-Two, this is One-Four at the Customs entrance, do you read?"

Just as he was about to relax, Ethan's radio received a transmission. The chirpy voiced belonged to Blackjack One-Four, Omar 'Sleight' Guerrero.

"Lima Charlie, Sleight. Go ahead.", Ethan responded.

"I have eyes on two police trucks parked outside by the entrance, occupants armed with AKs…", his comrade spoke. "…Did you, uh, call-in some backup for us?"

The marksman was puzzled by his report. Neither he nor Emily radioed for local cops to bolster their defenses. The nearest police station was a hundred miles to the south. And most, if not all, of the police units in the region were bogged down by the fighting in the capital. Besides, why would the cops be here if the Border agents were already doing a good job keeping the peace? Surely, there wasn't any shortage of manpower at the checkpoint. It was hard to make sense of it all, putting the pieces together…

Then, it hit him like a sudden jolt. Ethan's curiosity turned into dread in a split-second.

"One-Four, be advised! They're not-"

*BANG!* *BANG!*

Grey eyes widened in shock, as Ethan's earpiece rang with the sound of two gunshots, followed by a grunt and a tumble. His heart skipped a beat, as his fingers froze around his radio's call button. Soon enough, the air went loud with automatic gunfire and terrified screams. When he turned outside, he was treated to a scene of pandemonium- refugees scattering, security guards being gunned down, and masked men in tan police uniforms running and shooting all over the place.

"Contact! CONTACT!", Ethan called into his earpiece.

There was no time to think. A switch was flipped in his brain as his bloodstream filled with adrenaline and his heart began to race. All traces of weariness left him. After flicking his EBR's safety, Ethan raised the rifle and pointed it at the chaos below, whereupon he spotted at trio of hostiles armed with AKs, hiding behind a white van. It didn't occur to them that they were being observed by a shooter from the second floor.

*Pht!* *Pht!* *Pht!* *Pht!*

He squeezed off four rounds from his rifle, muffled by the sound suppressor, and quickly found their respective targets, center mass. The first man dropped instantly, while the second one barely had time to react to his fallen partner when the bullet pierced his torso. The last guy caught one bullet in the chest and another in the neck. In less than two seconds, they all fell to the ground, dead and splattered with blood. Satisfactory work, but the mood didn't allow for celebrating.

"One-Four, come in! …One-Four, talk to me!"

The radio responded with silence. Only one conclusion dawned on him: Omar was out-of-action; probably dead. A casualty. The thought was both gut-wrenching and infuriating. Yet, he knew that he needed to warn his comrades about the danger.

"Team, be advised!", Ethan reported. "I have enemy contact at the west vehicle exit! I say again, west vehicle exit! Shooters armed with automatic weapons, how copy?"

"One-Five copies."

"Two-One copies."

Everyone turned their game faces on and readied their guns, wasting no time to man their defensive positions like clockwork. Soon enough, the distinctive reports of Mk18 rifles and M249 machineguns meshed with the sounds of Kalashnikovs. Nine men and their allies squared off against dozens of attackers. Amidst the cacophony, the security room staff desperately radioed for help. In turn, the team's airwaves were filled with combat callouts. All hell had broken loose.

"One-Five here. I have eyes on multiple tangos converging at the east vehicle entrance. Preparing to engage."

"Roger that!", Gabe replied over the horn. "Precision shots only! Save your ammo!"

"Two-One. Multiple Border agents down, ten plus EKIA confirmed. We're catching lead and buckets on our position; falling back to the main building."

Ethan noted the exchanges in his mind. It felt like the situation turned from 'precarious' to 'completely fucked' in a matter of minutes. But he remembered that help was about to come soon; the team simply needed to hold on for a while longer until Busker arrived. So, he kept firing at the enemies until his rifle's last round was spent. A fresh magazine and a quick tab of the bolt release, he rose again from his position, ready to take out any armed hostile that entered his sights.

Sure enough, he spotted a gunman totting an RPK, running along the sandy asphalt below. Ethan lined up another kill shot in short order. The range was about 30 yards…

*Pht!*

The masked male did a quick faceplant, lifelessly. A pool of red began to form beneath his corpse. Not a moment too soon, another target came into Ethan's view- another AK-wielding shooter, taking potshots from a stalled delivery truck by the street. He did little to conceal his position from the marksman's crosshairs...

*Pht!*

The gunman's body jerked when the bullet struck him, then he fell to the asphalt with a dusty thud. Another kill, another corpse littered the ground. It was time to look for another target. Ethan peered into his scope, the adrenaline kept him upright and awake. High or low, he scanned every corner and alley for anything amiss. He kept his breathing calm and regulated in between short intervals- a trick to steady his aim.

But just as he moved his eyes away from the scope, puffs of dirt and debris suddenly kicked his face, followed by the distinctive snaps of bullets missing him by inches.

"Agh, fuck!", he cursed.

His eyes didn't catch the shots, but he knew that a machine gun just hammered his spot, presumably from across the street. With fatigue impeding his faculties, Ethan took a while to determine the source of the bullets- a group of tangos perched atop the western exit's guard tower, wrested from the security forces during the skirmish. Their silhouettes were clear enough to scope and drop, but the volume of fire was too much for him to risk it. With no clear advantage in sight, Ethan realized it was time to disengage.

"One-Two, falling back! Headed to interior!"

With great urgency and speed, he darted to the security room, vaulting across an open window whilst bullets whizzed by his head and torso. Inside, the security staff were already crouched behind cover, panicking at the rattles of bullets hitting reinforced metal and thick concrete. After hitting the ground, the marksman dove to an overturned desk, unscathed. His luck held out, to his amusement. He now had four walls, Gabe, Emily, and a handful of agents to back him up. Ethan resumed firing at the enemies outside, whereupon Gabe joined him in his spot, lending a hand with his Mk18 rifle. He didn't forget to praise his friend's ludicrous stunt.

"Slick fucking moves there, Ace!", the black man patted him.

"Hah! Jesus, it's like Kandahar all over again!"

The endorphins in his system caused Ethan to smile hysterically amidst the chaos. Emily, meanwhile, was shocked and slack-jawed at the sudden turn of events. She probably thought that an audacious attempt to rescue Mohandes in broad daylight was just a distant probability; fate had just proven her wrong. She exchanged eye contact with the two men with guns, but she didn't utter a word. Rather, she pulled out her sidearm from the holster and cocked the hammer. Her other hand gripped Mohandes by the shoulder, pointing the barrel of her gun just inches away from his left temple. The stakes just went higher.

"Team! Hold your positions! Don't let them inside the compound!", Gabe ordered over the radio.

"What now, sir?", Ethan asked.

The constant gunfire threatened to drown out his voice. Some of the security staff were fighting back using their service pistols. The scene resembled yet another hairy situation that this duo of professionals had weathered countless times before.

"Stand our ground, wait for evac! Keep the prisoner secure at all costs, clear?"

"Let's take him to the break room.", Emily suggested. "The security office is compromised!"

Her idea suddenly raised a couple of eyebrows.

"You sure that's a good call, Jacobsen?"

"No time to argue, Ace!", Emily brushed him off as she lifted their prisoner from his seat. "Mohandes is the priority here! We can't let these bastards find him!"

Against sound logic, Ethan and Gabe left their spot and accompanied the woman and her captive, moving past anxious faces and messy tables. The break room was just next door. It contained the remnants of a lunch break so violently interrupted, but was otherwise unscathed by the fighting. Emily's suggestion made some sense, considering they were outnumbered. By moving deeper into the Border Control building, they were further away from the gunfire outside. But they've also abandoned their defensive positions at the security office. Should the ruthless, masked goons break into the second floor, the trio would be cornered like dogs.

The day took an incredibly dangerous turn. Ethan had no plans to die this day. There was a job offer waiting back home. There was a promise of a better life for him and his little girl, just a phone call away. She was eagerly waiting to see her daddy again. And he was gunning for a chance to embrace a new chapter in their lives. He wanted to remain optimistic, that he would see this last mission through with Gabe and the others.

But he'd been in this line of work long enough to know that things seldom go smoothly as he would hope. And this time, he feared, his luck has started to run out. The gunmen sent to rescue their prisoner were very motivated. The disguises, the guns, the vehicles… Mohandes's benefactor really wanted him returned. Ethan should've expected something like this. 'Mohandes'. 'The Engineer'. An honorific like that was seldom handed to anyone, unless he had a serious rep. Of course the bad guys wanted him back. If they succeed, the CIA would lose two years of covert ops work, blood, and sweat. Millions of lives would be at risk. Omar's sacrifice would be in vain.

Such thoughts only added to the stress in the situation. Ethan was fuming as he walked with his comrades.

"One-Four, check in!", Gabe called to their comrade, refusing to believe his death. "One-Four, this is One-One, do you read? …Fuck."

Mohandes snickered. He was aware of the ill-fortune that just befell his captors. The laughter was enough to break the marksman's self-control.

"What's so funny!?", Ethan lashed out. "Are we amusing you!? Huh!?"

He shoved the handcuffed man into the wall, then gave him a swift punch to the gut, strong enough to send him squirming in pain. That was for Omar. The poor bastard coughed and heaved as he clutched his abdomen. Gabe and Emily did nothing to help him back on his feet. When he came to, Mohandes stared back at Ethan, green eyes filled with contempt. The feeling was mutual. Then a wry smile formed in the prisoner's bloodied face. As if he knew that the Americans were doomed.

"Ace, take it easy!", Gabe scolded his friend.

"I'll be easy when we're finally rid of this asshole…", he raised his fist for another blow.

"Ace! CALM DOWN!"

The words didn't do much. Ethan was angry at everything. The mission was irrelevant. He didn't care about the Compound Z or the prisoner. He wanted to kill him and just be over with it. Gabe would rather not add to the growing strain, so he placed a firm hand on his friend's shoulder instead. They stood there for a few seconds, standing behind a wooden wall.

"Wait...", Emily blurted out. "…Did you guys hear that?"

Too warped by his rage, Ethan didn't understand what she meant. He looked at her rather critically, as if he wanted her to make some damn sense of herself. Then, a rather curious sound came. Something tapped the other side of the wall behind them. At first it was a soft smack, like a dollop of clay splattered across a flat surface. Then a louder tab. Then, the sound of hard rubber.

Then a beep.

...

*BOOOOOM!*

The explosion was incredibly loud and bright. In an instant, a large section of the wall disintegrated, sending a strong shockwave that rumbled across the room. Splinters, smoke, and shrapnel went flying in all directions. The four people in the room were thrown about violently by the sheer force. But Gabe, the man closest to the wall, took the brunt of the blast. Right after the deafening and blinding bang, he was tossed across like a worn ragdoll, with shredded cloth, gusts of blood, and pieces of flesh. Ethan was directly behind him. The blast was loud enough to send bells ringing to his ear. The next thing he knew, his face and chest were scorching. He landed hard on his back and his head bounced on the floor with a bone-crushing thud. The pain came immediately.

"ARRGHH!"

Ethan yelped as his battered body hit the floorboards and his pain receptors went into overdrive. He was hurt all over. Opening his eyes, he realized he was thrown more than six feet by the explosion. He wasn't aware that his friend Gabe was lying just beside him; the Broncos cap was torn and bloodied. He was dead before he hit the floor.

 _Come on Ethan, on your feet!_

Time seemed to crawl; it was probably the adrenaline still kicking. The pain was too much. Beyond the haze from the large gap at the wall, Ethan saw three men decked in grey combat gear and face masks, carrying assault rifles. The ropes around their bodies told him that they rappelled from the roof. Their entrance already known, the new visitors jumped inside and opened fire at the Border agents at the adjacent security office. There were screams and grunts of pain. Then, one of the armed men turned his gaze to Emily, who was flat on her belly, struggling to stand up. He hovered over her crumpled form and gave her a solid whack to the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking her out cold.

Mohandes laid beside her, just as shaken by the blast. Another gunman grabbed him by the shoulder and led him to the hole they just made, where he fixed a separate rope for him to abseil from. In less than ten seconds, the mission completely fell apart.

"Shit... Shit...", Ethan muttered.

These men were highly-trained. Very good. Delirious to the pain in his body, he brought out the Glock 34 from his holster and chambered a round. His wounds inhibited his aim, but he nonetheless fired wildly at the attackers. They were caught off guard- one of them got hit three times in the chest, killing him instantly. In their haste to leave the building, the remaining men quickly fled while shooting at the wounded marksman's direction, their prize in tow. Ethan was defiant, unfazed by the bullets whizzing past him. He held on to the trigger for as long as he could. Unknowingly, this caused his pistol to jam.

*Click* *Click* *Click*

His instinct told him to reload his sidearm. But with fatigue and pain taking their toll on him, Ethan dropped the weapon and collapsed in defeat, helplessly as he watched the assailants rappel away from his view.

Not long after, his earpiece captured the desperate pleas from his comrades, who were scattered and fighting throughout the building. The panic in their voices made it bare that the situation turned for the worst. The attack on the Border Control was well-coordinated.

"Is there anyone on this frequency!? Two-One is down! We have tangos pouring all over the- augh!"

Their words fell on deaf ears. Ethan felt his eyes grow weary. If he closed them long enough, he'd fall asleep on the spot. It didn't take long for him to give in; he found comfort in the blackness that welcomed him.

…

* * *

…

"One-Two! Come in!", the earpiece came back to life. "Blackjack One-Two, this is Busker Two-Four, please respond!"

The female pilot's pleas were enough to wake Ethan. He must have been out for a few minutes. Unfortunately, he didn't have the strength to respond; the trauma that his body suffered left him weak and beaten. He was tempted to accept his fate, until he heard frantic footsteps approach his left.

"Ace? Ace! ACE!"

It was a woman's voice. Emily. Her clothes were dirty and her hijab was lowered, revealing a bloodied, pretty face. There was a stream of red running from the nasty bruise on her left temple. But she was alive and strong enough to stand; her blue eyes were lively and filled with worry.

"Ethan, wake up!", she shook him, calling him by name. "...Come on, stay with me!"

"Blackjack, are you there!?", Busker yelled over the horn again. "We're five klicks away from your position! I'm seeing smoke and small arms fire at the compound!"

Hearing the pilot on the frequency, Emily took Ethan's earpiece and called her back.

"Busker? Busker! Do you read?"

"What the- who is this?"

"Oscar-Golf-Alpha, identification: Echo-Juliet.", the redhead replied. "We were jumped at the rendezvous. I have multiple Eagles down at the Border Control! Repeat, Eagles down at the Border Control!"

"Goddamit...", the pilot muttered under her breath. "...Copy that, we're hoofin' it. What about the prisoner?"

Emily paused, showing a look of dismay and shame in her eyes.

"The HVI has been... captured. They... they got him..."

Ethan could hear those words echo as he tried to keep himself from slipping out. But he was so exhausted. He wanted to be out of this place. His addled mind told him that this was just a bad dream. The pain and the numbness were just part of the show. The air reeked with cinders, cordite, and burnt flesh. His head was so clouded. Perhaps by closing his eyes, he'd wake up from this nightmare.

The darkness welcomed him again.

...

* * *

Quincy Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts  
Several months later

...

"Take a right over here.", Caleb ordered the driver.

The man did as he was told. He was nervous, as was everyone else in the white van. Everyone, except for the pale-skinned bald guy, riding shotgun and giving directions. He had done this before.

The last time he came to Boston was about two years ago, around the same time that he left the Marines. The visit was nothing important; he didn't have any friends or family to come see. He just felt the need to go there and watch the Marathon, see a different city for a change. But the former leatherneck was impressed by the people's resilience. Even after all the tragedies and violence they've experienced over the past decade, they went on with their lives with smiles and a song in their hearts. In a way, he was jealous of them.

Perhaps he could've learned a thing or two from that trip. But he already passed the tipping point a very long time ago. He no longer cared.

"Here we are.", he muttered. "Welcome to Bartlett."

The windscreen greeted him to the sight of a colonial-style metal gate, a testament to the University's long and prestigious history. The van drove closer, only to be stopped by a couple of policemen in black uniforms at the guard post. One of them was a grizzled old man, presumably in his fifties. The other one, a younger man, stood further away and activated an electronic sensor at the post. Standard security procedures.

"IDs please..."

Caleb replied by bringing out his card. Today, he was a food service guy serving organic coffee and tea for the festival at the heart of the campus. He had documents to prove it. And if the officer didn't buy them, he'd just add something else to the story. But the old man, predictably, called to his radio and asked for verification. A nod and a short, inaudible conversation went by. A few seconds later, he returned the ID.

"Okay, son. Head on in."

The driver smiled back, hiding his anxiety. Caleb simply gave a nod as the metal gate before them slowly swung open. Then, they were on the move.

It was a mild surprise for everyone. Every law enforcement agency in New England were still looking for them. Yet, the cops here just let them through without as much as checking their vehicle. Campus security was a bit lax; the guards only had crummy metal detectors as a precaution against danger. Then again, Caleb's crew already knew about this. Their intelligence was top-notch and everyone had done their homework. Everyone knew that this side of the campus had weak security.

Within seconds, the most difficult part of the operation was over. The van drove deeper into the campus, almost leisurely. Everywhere Caleb looked, there were students and yuppies walking about or minding their own business. Trees and shrubs were everywhere, neatly-arranged to beautify the 18th century buildings that Bartlett was famous for. Classes were on-going, presumably, given how many of the kids he saw had books and backpacks in their person. A lot of them also twiddled with their smartphones to pass the time. There were cliques of different kinds throughout the place. A typical day at one of America's most important academic institutions.

It didn't take long for the van to reach its destination: a wide, grassy field, where a bunch of tents and chairs were propped up. Dozens of students were hanging out or having fun with their friends at the festival. Some were dancing, others were singing to the upbeat music. All of them were smiling. There were parched throats and grumbling stomachs all around, so a food delivery truck was nothing to raise an eyebrow over. A few yards across the field was Liberty Hall, the crew's primary objective. So far so good.

Caleb looked at his watch. It was time for their final radio check.

"This is Odysseus...", he said on his radio. "...Trojan Horse is in. Last call."

Within seconds, a string of voices replied. They were hushed and muffled, as they were mingling with the crowd.

"Blue, in position."

"Red, in position."

"Gold, in position."

"Black, in position."

He was satisfied with the responses from the other crews. If Caleb still had a heart, he would've rolled his eyes at the ridiculous callsigns they were all given.

"Odysseus copies. I have the keys to the city. Stand-by..."

With that, the man made his way to the rear of the van. His comrades were already shedding their disguises, exchanging jumpers for hoodies, tactical webbing, and ivory-white ballistic masks. Smuggling their gear into Boston was easier than they thought, given that the FBI and the ATF fell for the bait. One man opened a heavy trunk and began handing everyone their assault rifles, while another began tinkering with the bomb they brought. Everyone shared their grenades evenly. Caleb, meanwhile, was concerned about their package. It was stored inside another trunk, lined with insulating material.

"Hey, be careful man.", one of the crew told him. "We don't have our breathers on yet."

The word of caution was well-placed. Inside the container were stacks upon stacks of yellow canisters, each as large as a small oxygen bottle. Contained in their shells were several milligrams of Compound Z, more than enough to kill a conference room full of people. On their own, the canisters were little more than gas grenades. Combined, they were enough to shut down an entire city block, devoid of life.

That was the plan.

"Lock and load, boys."

Caleb brought out a white balaclava and worn it over his head, then topped it with a grey gasmask, as with the rest of the crew. He cradled an SG 552 in his arms; he would be using his sniper rifle at another time. Each man was handed a yellow canister.

"These things better work, bro..."

"They will...", he replied. "...I told The Engineer I'll put a bullet in his head if they don't..."

They looked at one another for a few seconds. Enough time for them to remove any trace of doubt or second thoughts. Nobody balked. It was time to make history.

"Execute. Execute."

Caleb was the first to step out of the metal doors, a rifle in one hand and a canister in the other. The crowd, still elated by the festivities, didn't notice the heavily-armed man who just emerged from the white vehicle. Poor fools. The only one who saw him was a young woman, dressed in a maroon sweater, emblazoned with her alma matter's sigil. She was looking at her smartphone, smiling, when her eyes caught a glimpse of the masked figure.

She screamed too late.

...

* * *

.


	2. Chapter 1 - Team Rainbow

**Update (2/19/2017):** Had to change some words and phrases.  
 **Update (11/15/2017):** Affectations toned-down from this point on, as I said in Chapter Nine

* * *

 **Chapter One - "Team Rainbow"**

* * *

Bartlett University, Cambridge, Massachusetts  
1530 hours

...

Mission time was two hours and thirty seconds.

Emmanuelle Pichon felt uneasy sitting in the Blackhawk. Her bulky, grey MOPP suit made it more cumbersome to shift in her seat. The gas mask gave her tunnel vision, and the imaging goggles on her forehead was slightly disorienting. Top that with all the rifle mags, flashbangs, drone batteries, and other miscellanies on her chest rig, her body felt completely burdened. But any discomfort she felt was irrelevant, nor was it worthy of her attention. The clock was ticking. She rested her fingers on the FAMAS on her lap, as her lips murmured childhood lullabies and prayers to keep herself calm. Her eyes were closed, her mind was focused.

It was rather gloomy and quiet inside the cabin. The doors were shut tight, so nobody knew what awaited them on the ground. A rather fitting metaphor, given the amount of 'actionable intelligence' the team had for this mission. Yet all throughout the flight, she didn't hear a single complaint from anyone in the aircraft. The scale of the situation was too great to gripe about poor planning, lack of preparation, and whatnot. The whos, whats, and whys didn't matter. Many lives were counting on Rainbow to act _now_.

Would there even be any survivors to rescue? The flight from Fort Bragg burned a lot of time; it may already be too late.

"Twenty seconds to insertion.", the pilot announced to his passengers. "On final approach to the LZ."

The words were like a command prompt for Emma's brain. Upon hearing them, she opened her eyes and pulled the charging handle on her rifle's top receiver. The audible click told her that the _Clarion_ was loaded with a fresh bullet. She then checked the reflex scope, to see if the reticle was on. Turning to her left, she saw the rest of Alpha Team doing the same steps, arming their weapons and checking their gear in silent fashion. Gilles Touré. Miles Campbell. Shuhrat Kessikbayev. The Frenchwoman followed their example and took another look at her suit's pressure gauge and oxygen readings. The last thing she wanted was to die a stupid death via asphyxiation.

It was game time. Team leader Seamus Cowden finally rose from his seat.

"Oi, listen up!", he spoke in his Scottish drawl. "I want a five-meter spread, diamond formation once we're on the ground. Eyes on yer sectors. We're gonna leg it to the building together, clear?"

Everyone bobbed their heads in response. The plan was simple: Alpha will take Liberty Hall, Bravo will proceed to the adjacent Dormitories, and Charlie will follow closely and set up triage for any survivors. Since they had reports of explosives in the campus, each team was also entrusted with an electronic bomb defuser kit. Emma was carrying the one given to Alpha. By the simulation's estimates, it would probably take twenty minutes for the teams to accomplish their objectives. Mission notes, floor plans, and entry tactics occupied their heads.

Alpha-One gave one last reminder.

"I'll be making our entry. Montagne will take point. Castle, you'll have rear security. Fuze, explosives. Twitch, keep the drone and the defuser ready."

"Roger that, sir.", she responded.

Then, the pilot opened the channel and spoke again. "Five seconds...",

Before they knew it, the helicopter was nearly above their designated landing zone. Using nothing more than hand signals, Seamus ordered the Blackhawk's cabin doors to be opened, immediately showering the compartment with bright and blinding sunlight. Then, the crew chief gathered an armful of rope and tossed it outside of the fuselage. A standard helicopter insertion from a height of 20 meters, give or take. Beyond the gaping door was the point of no return.

"...Green light! Go! Go! Go!"

Nobody hesitated. One by one, Alpha Team rose from their seats and grasped at the long, static assault line dangling outside. Seamus was the first one out. Next was Miles, followed by Shuhrat. The towering Gilles was next, and he patted Emma's back before he ventured out and abseiled to the bottom. It was simple well-wishing from one ex-Gendarmerie to another. Then, it was her turn.

 _Okay, let's do this._

Emma grabbed the rope with both hands and legs, then let herself out of the chopper. She pivoted her body a good 180 degrees, as she let herself descend into the thick mist below at about eight feet per second. The hard, tensile fabric skid across the palm of her Kevlar gloves, as she made a conscious effort to keep her legs from getting tangled. Halfway through the rope's length, she immediately used her right hand to exert tension and slow her body down. Her boots were firmly planted less than two seconds later. Removing herself from the rope and lifting her FAMAS at shoulder-level, the young woman was good to go. She was immediately met by a dense fog of yellowish toxic gas. The helicopter flew off shortly after.

"Sledge to all Strike Elements...", Seamus called into the radio. "...Alpha is on the ground, ready to proceed to target building."

The plan hinged on everyone advancing to their respective objectives simultaneously. Luckily, the second Blackhawk was only a few seconds away from Alpha Team's LZ. The senior most officer on board that aircraft was ex-Navy SEAL Meghan Castellano, who promptly replied to the Scotsman's report.

"Check that, Alpha. Bravo and Charlie are inserting now. Don't start the party without us."

The fog was incredibly thick. Whatever gave it its sickly yellow tint must be have been a very potent biochemical agent. The downdraft from the incoming helicopter blew some of the fog away, albeit briefly. Glancing beside her shoulder, Emma could see the Blackhawk hovering above, ropes dangling outside, and hooded figures dropping from the cabin doors one by one. She counted ten other Rainbow operatives joining them in the field, weapons at the ready.

"Alpha-One, this is Bravo-One.", Meghan spoke again. Her MOPP suit made her totally indistinguishable from the others. "All Elements are on deck, waitin' on you."

"Copy that Bravo.", Seamus replied. "All teams, execute. Mission is a go."

With that order, fifteen heavily-armed men and women fanned out across the grassy grounds of Bartlett University. All of their training, virtual or otherwise, have prepared them for this. And just like their drills and exercises, almost everything they did next was muscle memory. Their guns were raised and pointed at any direction their eyes turned to. Their legs moved briskly, wasting no time to carry them to their objectives. The diamond formation ensured that each group was covered in all angles.

Visibility was low. Liberty Hall's spire was in sight, only a few meters away, but the sun could barely break through the fog. Emma could only see beyond an arm's length; she had to narrow her eyes to see clearer. From her perspective, the campus resembled ground zero, lifeless and barren. There was no other movement, save for the commandos running across the grassy ground. There were remnants of a once lively afternoon- papers, books, food stuffs, and empty shell casings.

There were also plenty of bodies littering the grass and the pavement. Some of them belonged to the first-responders; cops and security guards killed by this callous act of mass murder. And just at the outskirts of Liberty Hall was a mass of bodies concentrated around tents and chairs. To Emma's quiet horror, she saw youthful faces- cold, pale, and motionless. They were all students. They've been dead for a few hours.

It was a grizzly scene that could crush anyone's hearts.

"Oh my God...", she muttered. It took every fiber of her being to fight back the tears.

"Eyes forward, Twitch.", Seamus berated her. "Nothing we can do for them now..."

The tall man didn't even turn to look at her. Instead, he pressed on to the objective with his rifle raised. For a moment, Emma wanted to snap at his heartless statement.

*Crack!*

She was startled by the sound of broken glass. It caused her to recoil a bit and look at her feet. She had just stepped on a smartphone lying beside a limp, motionless hand attached to a human body. A young woman with a brown ponytail. She was a student, donning a maroon sweater decked with the University's coat of arms. She was lying face down, with a pink handkerchief covering her nose.

Every bit of logic told Emma that this kid was dead. But somehow, her gut told her to take a closer look. She could make out the sounds of faint wheezing, coming from the girl's nostrils. Grasping at the wrist, she checked for a pulse…

"…Guys! I... I think she's still alive!"

A small miracle. It was enough to bring a faint smile on Emma's face. Incredulous to everything else, she quickly brought out one of her spare breathers and brought to the girl's nose and mouth. She was unconscious, but the female trooper felt the need to talk to her regardless.

"Hang in there, kid! We'll get you out of here!"

Miles also went to the student's side and lent his comrade a hand. His knowledge of chemical and biological weapons was limited, but he knew enough first aid to treat anyone exposed to these harmful toxins. Seamus, meanwhile, stopped in his tracks and went back to his teammates, hovering over their shoulders. Right there and then, he retracted his previous statement.

"Alpha-One to Charlie-Two, do you read?"

He was radioing Tina Lin Tsang, Rainbow's resident rescue tech.

"Five-by-five, Alpha. Go ahead."

"I have a code-three civilian casualty on my position.", the tall man reported. "Female, late-teens to early twenties. Sending coordinates."

"Wilco, Alpha-One. Moving to you."

With that exchange, Seamus brought a hand to Emma's shoulder.

"Help's on the way, Em. We have to move..."

Again with the pragmatic orders. She didn't want to leave her. But the look on her team leader's eyes told her everything. They've done everything they could for her. None of them had the power to bring the other kids back. They must continue with the mission. Hopefully, they could still find other survivors.

"Don't worry, Emmanuelle...", Shuhrat radioed to her. "...We'll make these sons of bitches pay…"

She couldn't agree more.

"This is Bravo-Three.", a woman called in. The thick German accent undoubtedly belonged to Monika Weiss, who was attached to Meghan's team. "I spotted active signals at the Hall's first and second floors..."

"Check that, Bravo-Three.", the female SEAL responded. "Alpha-One, possible bomb location at the first and second decks of your target building, how copy?"

"We read ya, Bravo. Thanks for the heads-up."

Alpha and Bravo Teams continued their advance, while Charlie handled the casualties. Soon enough, amidst the thick poisonous fog, Seamus and the others have reached the Hall's front patio.

"Stack up on the door! Left-side breach!", he ordered.

Everyone went to their positions with utmost urgency, forming a line that hugged the structure's red brick wall. The windows were all shut. It seemed quiet inside. As the team planned beforehand, Seamus was the first man on the queue, followed by Gilles, Emma, Shuhrat, and Miles. The towering ex-SAS sergeant was closest to the door. He slung over his rifle and brought out his trusted sledgehammer, ready to smash the brown, pinewood frame open.

"Twitch, yer up."

"Copy that...", Emma replied, bringing out her prized RSD-1 from the backpack's sling. "...Deploying shock drone."

She raised her left arm and stared at her wrist pad. A press of the 'On' button caused the black screen to light up with a camera view from her little device. Brief glances at the boot-up messages told her that the signal between the drone and the monitor was clear. The arrow keys caused the wheeled robot to dart forward. The camera gave Emma a good view of the drone's perspective, and she kept her a finger close to the 'Mark' and 'Taze' buttons on her wrist pad, whichever would be prudent in the next few seconds. Everything was muscle memory.

"Patio clear... Coat room clear..."

Liberty Hall's interior was just as the photos and blueprints told her. Wooden surfaces, antique furniture, and a mostly brown, white, and beige color scheme. The marble floors were covered with debris, papers, blood, and shell casings. Electricity in the building was out and there was no source of light, save for a burning fireplace on the other end of a hall. There were a few dead bodies slumped on the ground. Morbidly, the logical part of Emma's brain told her that the corpses could be used as cover for her drone to hide behind.

It quickly paid off.

"Two tangos spotted...", Emma whispered into Alpha's frequency.

A couple of men in another hallway, sparsely spread apart, donning grey hoodies and gas masks. Each of them held an assault rifle. They were hunkering down behind a couch and an overturned bookshelf, as if they were waiting for her team to barge in through the front patio. They probably saw the choppers outside.

"...West wing, first floor reading room.", she reported. "Tangos behind cover, facing front patio… No shot."

"Roger that Alpha-Three.", Seamus replied. "Let's improvise."

He immediately motioned to Miles and Shuhrat to go to the other end of the building. Moving with haste, they lowered their imaging goggles and positioned themselves by the windows, eagerly awaiting their female teammate's callouts. They readied their sound suppressed pistols for the flank. It felt like VR training, all over again.

"Marking targets...", Emma called again.

With the press of a button, the shock drone briefly emitted a red light. The two terrorists had just been tagged with a red marker, which appeared in the HUD of Miles's and Shuhrat's goggles. The Rainbow troopers were assigned their targets, and they could take them out with a few bullets through the thin glass.

"Alpha-Four is ready."

"Five, ready for shot."

Emma acknowledged the replies. One last look at the drone's camera showed no other occupants in the reading room.

"Now!", she ordered.

Immediately, her comrades double-tapped the windows with their pistols. The two armed men on the other side grunted as they were hit. They fell to the floor, motionless. The shock drone's camera confirmed the kills.

"Targets down. We're in the clear."

"Good work Twitch.", the Scotsman praised her. "Castle, Fuze, regroup on me."

Without missing a beat, Seamus raised his Caber swung it into the wooden door, knocking it off its hinges. Gilles, with a suppressed P9 handgun and _Le Roc_ shield drawn, immediately stepped in, shadowed by Emma. The rest of the team followed them inside, one at a time. Then, the Frenchwoman knelt and maneuvered her shock drone for a pick-up. All of them took care not to step on the corpses.

"Room clear.", Gilles reported to the team leader. "Alpha-Two, pressing forward. Stay behind me."

"Copy. Bravo-One, Alpha is at the target building, headed inside."

"Check that, Alpha-One. We're also internal. Happy hunting."

The lumbering giant proceeded to an archway hall, his team following his lead with weapons drawn. They moved together, slowly and methodically. It might have been better for Alpha Team to split up and cover more ground. Unfortunately, the thick, poisonous mist made it harder to navigate the building. Visibility was next to nothing. Not only was it very easy to get lost in this place, it also presented plenty of spots for the terrorists to hide behind.

And lo and behold, a hooded man with a gas mask and a Steyr AUG stumbled across the hallway, completely surprised by the sudden presence of five commandos in the hall. Before he could yelp and warn his buddies, the terrorist was silenced with a single bullet to the head from Gilles' pistol. The blowback from the man's skull painted the wall behind him with a smear of red.

"Kill confirmed."

The team pressed on, moving past the dead bad guy and other corpses. The atmosphere was incredibly tense. Outside, they could hear faint explosions and gun fire erupting from the nearby Dormitories. Meghan and her team were fighting their way through the building. It's not as if Alpha had it easy; trouble seemed to wait for them at every corner. Luckily, this place had signs indicating where they were and where they needed to go. Just past the archway hall was the main hallway and the first-floor lounge. Beyond that must be the dining room, the kitchen, and the pantry, if Emma memorized the campus blueprints right.

It only took her and her comrades a few seconds to reach the end of the hall. Beyond the yellow mist, she could see that the doors were barricaded with wooden planks and barbed wire. There was no doubt that the enemy was on the other side.

"Twitch, get on yer drone again.", Seamus ordered her.

"Roger that."

The RSD-1 was deployed once more. Emma maneuvered the device into the room and underneath the wooden barricades. The chairs and tables confirmed that this was dining area. A few seconds of piloting later, she saw a well-complemented welcoming party of guns, ballistic panels, and makeshift firing positions manned by at least five men. They were aiming at the doors, waiting for a chance to give the Rainbow troopers hell.

These psychos were very well-equipped. The firearms, the deployable shields, the explosives, the toxic gas. She wouldn't be surprised if they were the same terrorists that they faced in Abidjan, London, and elsewhere. But why attack Bartlett? Out of all places, the University wasn't exactly a soft target. She would look for answers once she'd dealt with the problem at hand.

"… Multiple tangos and heavy defenses on the other side. Marking targets."

"Copy, Alpha-Three…", Shuhrat spoke.

He peeled off from the group and slowly approached the wooden barricades at the dining room. Quickly, but quietly, the ex-GRU operative brought out a Matryoshka charge from his backpack and placed on top of a section of the planks. With a push of a button, the bastards inside the room would be showered by a bouquet of miniature fragmentation grenades.

"…Cluster charge set."

Emma acknowledged the report and kept her green eyes on the screen. The masked men were panicking. The RSD-1's audio receptors could hear their anxious voices.

"Where the fuck is Caleb?", one of them asked. He was jittery. "I lost contact with Red Team!"

"He went to the dorms… We also got another group of hostiles over there."

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit…"

"Hey!", the other gunman shook his partner. "Remember the plan, remember our training, and we'll be fine, right?"

Emma heard enough. Once again, she piloted the drone and directed it into the adjacent kitchen, scouting for potential threats. The device picked up movement almost immediately; about six terrorists were hunkering down behind the appliances and the furniture. The drone weaved through tiny gaps, dangerously close to the boots of the clueless bad guys. Every inch and corner must be covered before her team could storm in.

Then she saw something quite unsettling.

 _…What the hell?!_

Right beside one of the kitchen stoves was a crude, bulky device, resembling a hodgepodge of different containers, wires, and tubes in a massive, rectangular frame. There were about three cylinders wrapped together with a harness, sitting on top of a large, ominous-looking red barrel. There were gauges and lights installed all over the chassis. Judging from the beeping and the blinking strobe lights, this device could only be one thing.

"I-I found the bomb… _Mon Dieu_ , it's big."

It was a nerve-wracking sight. A device of that size could level the entire building, with little to no time for anyone to escape. Worse, there were no exposed circuits for the RSD-1's tazer probes to fry. While her engineering skills were limited to robotics and machines, Emma knew at first glance that the bomb would take forever to disarm by hand. Whoever built this thing was an expert. Good thing they had an electronic defuser.

"Six tangos spotted. Marking locations now."

With that, Alpha Team lowered their imaging goggles and confirmed the data in their HUDs. A heavy battle lay ahead of them. But just as Emma was about to maneuver the shock drone away from the kitchen, the little robot was spotted by one of the masked men. He was completely startled by it.

"What the fuck!?", the terrorist raised his gun.

*BANG! BANG!*

In an instant, the screen on the Frenchwoman's wrist pad turned into static.

"Fuck! Shock drone is down!"

That was enough for the team to spring into action. They were compromised.

"Stack up on the door, now!", Alpha-One ordered.

Gilles stood beside one of the barricaded doors, with Emma close behind, a flashbang on her hand. Miles and Seamus moved to the other door, with the latter clutching at his sledgehammer. Shuhrat slung the bullpup machinegun to his back and brought up the Matryoshka's detonator. The air was tense.

"Go loud! Go loud!"

Alpha Team's demolition expert made the first move, squeezing the button.

"Fire in the hole!"

*Click!*

*Thoomp!* *Thoomp!* *Thoomp!* *Thoomp!* *Thoomp!*

The Matryoshka spat its grenades into the room, bouncing across marble floors and concrete walls with perceptible, metallic clunks. At first, the gunmen were surprised at the sight of tiny pucks emerging from the wooden barricades. Then, they screamed their lungs out in fear. Seconds later, they were obliterated by loud, powerful explosions. The ground resonated with the awesome power of a bomblet chain reaction. The rumbling ceased soon after.

"Flash out!"

"Flashbang going out!", Emma yelled.

Gilles turned away as his partner tossed the grenade under the barricade. Inside the room, the device erupted into a blinding and ear-ringing spark of light.

"GO! GO! GO!"

The towering Frenchman smashed the planks with his shield, then entered the dining room with his female partner, guns raised and blood filled with adrenaline. They stumbled across a complete mess of overturned tables, twisted metal panels, and blood smeared walls. Emma ignored the sickening sight of five mangled bodies strewn across the room and instead focused on her goggles. There were six red markers still active and she lined them up on her rifle's reflex scope. She followed Gilles closely behind, who already had his _Le Roc_ raised. They were soon met by gunfire from the kitchen next door.

" _Merde_! Stay behind me!"

Alpha Team's point man retracted his shield to catch the bullets, rattling with solid thuds. His partner peeked out of the giant's imposing figure and aimed her FAMAS down. Using her goggles to guide her, she sprayed the dark figures in the room with bursts of 5.56mm fire.

At the same time, Emma caught a glimpse of Miles, Shuhrat, and Seamus stacking up on the wall at the end of the dining room hallway. The team leader smashed it open with his sledgehammer. Then, Miles tossed another flashbang inside. Another white burst of light, another ringing sound. The terrorists were the only ones who didn't shield their eyes. They screamed and grunted at the deafening flashes as they received a hail of bullets from the Spetsnaz commando's LMG.

The remaining targets were sitting ducks for the female trooper's gun sights. She cut them down without a second thought.

"Reloading! Cover me!", she yelled.

Emma brought out a fresh, 30-round STANAG mag from one of her pouches and loaded it to her weapon. Another pull of the charging handle, another audible click, as Gilles continued the advance. The kitchen was dark. The only source of light was the massive bomb Alpha Team needed to disarm. Lack of electricity, a thick toxic mist, and copious amounts of smoke from the explosions made it difficult to see ahead, even with the aid of image-enhancers and optics.

It was the perfect trap.

"Raaarrrrgh!"

Just as Emma crossed the threshold to the kitchen, a masked man lunged at her and knocked the bullpup assault rifle from her hands. Her heart leapt from the suddenness of the ambush. It happened so fast; in less than two seconds, the man had pushed her into the ground and pulled out a knife from his belt. She, on the other hand, drew her LFP revolver and prepared to shoot.

"WATCH OUT!"

It was Shuhrat. He rushed and tackled her attacker with tremendous force, the two men knocked over a tray of plates from one of the kitchen counters. Emma slipped away from the two men as they almost collapsed on top of her, trading punches. She aimed her gun at the mess of bodies, but didn't get a clear shot. However, it was obvious that the Russian soldier had the upper hand. He overpowered the knife-wielding terrorist and pinned him to the ground. He began smashing his face.

"Murderer! Fucking! MURDERER!", he yelled between his blows in anger. "You like killing kids!? Huh!? HUH!?"

Such a savage sight. The punching was merciless. Shuhrat was a highly-trained elite soldier, easily worth ten men, specializing in all forms of explosive entry and assaults. Bombs, guns and grenades were his preferred methods of killing. Not once did Emma expect to see him brutally beat-up another man. And she certainly didn't expect him to tear off the terrorist's gas mask.

The attacker immediately breathed in the toxic gas in the room, extremely horrified. He screamed, coughed, and choked, as his body convulsed violently. Then, it went still. Emma was speechless at what she just saw. It took a forceful pull of her shoulder to snap her back to reality.

"Hey! You alright?", Gilles shook her.

She turned around. She simply nodded at him, at a loss of words.

"Room clear!", Alpha-Four reported.

"Copy that Castle!" Seamus spoke on the radio. "Twitch! Get on the defuser!"

His words were like a stern teacher, slamming her desk and waking her up. Ignoring the horror that she witnessed, Emma went to the bomb and knelt beside it. With four other men watching the corners, she pulled out the bulky defuser from its carrying bag, strapped to her left thigh.

Another bit of muscle memory kicked in. She opened the device, which resembled a chubby laptop, and raised its signal antennae. Then, she began typing protocols in the keyboard. Since it was impractical to disarm the bomb by hand, the next best thing was to override its circuits with a different set of electronic signals. Like a computer program designed to crack a security system by bombarding it with millions and millions of passwords.

"Defuser is activated!", she reported.

"Copy!", the Scotsman replied. "Alpha-Four, we need to hunker down 'ere. Now!"

"Roger that. Setting up barricades..."

Miles wasted no time and pulled out sheets of UTP-1 Armor Panels from his carrying bag. The tensile, but durable fabric was designed to stop bullets and block access, providing ample protection against any would-be intruder. The dark-skinned man draped each Panel across the kitchen's windows and doors, save for the one door that led to the first-floor lounge. The team needed an escape route.

And with good reason. While Miles secured their position, Emma heard heavy footsteps and shouting from the first and second floors. It seemed that the remaining terrorists in the building were on their way to kitchen. Everyone in the Team heard the incoming sounds.

"Barricades in place, Alpha-One."

"Copy, Alpha-Four. Team! We have company! Check and reload your weapons! Don't let these arseholes through!"

Another fight lay ahead of them.

…

* * *

…

Mission time was five hours and zero seconds.

The skies were dark. Bartlett University was filled with all manner of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. Cops and soldiers donned gas masks as they guarded the campus, while armored vehicles cordoned off the streets from anxious onlookers. There were news crews and helicopters at the scene, itching for a glimpse of the aftermath. Sirens and flashing lights blared all around. It was an overwhelming scene, typical of what would occur after every tragedy. But Emma, still in her grey MOPP suit, simply walked passed it and went straight to the decontamination tent. The gas mask kept her identity hidden, as per protocol.

The crisis was over. Yet, the mission would only end once everyone was back at base.

She pulled the charging handle on her FAMAS to ensure that it wasn't loaded. Then, she placed the weapon on the gun rack and went inside the tent. Beyond the semi-translucent curtains was a shower stall and a metal grate, basking in a faint yellow light. There were also a couple of technicians in Hazmat suits, holding charts and chemical scanners. She exchanged nods with them, as she stood under the shower and waited for the water to rain on her body.

She was deathly tired. Her muscles were aching. Her mouth was dry and her breathing was raspy. The adrenaline in her bloodstream had worn off hours ago, and she was suffering its side-effects. And inside her bulky clothing, she felt that her fatigues were soggy with sweat. She would probably skip the debrief once they got back to Fort Bragg, and head to her room instead. She would take a hot shower, chug down a cold bottle of water, then hit the sack. Dinner wasn't inviting anymore. She would probably just buy a sandwich from a nearby shop and eat in the Blackhawk.

A minute later, the Frenchwoman emerged from the tent. Rather than pick up her weapon, she opted to look for Seamus first.

"Sledge?", she called out his nickname.

Emma scanned her eyes for the tall, burly man. She needed to learn her orders. She could've used her radio at this point, but _Madame_ Six ordered everyone against it. The police and paramedics needed full control of the airwaves to coordinate the on-going rescue and retrieval efforts at the campus. There were so many people to comb over. There were stretchers and gurneys carrying the wounded. It was humbling to see so many casualties. Thank God that nobody in Rainbow was killed or injured.

"Sledge? Sledge?"

Thankfully, it didn't take her long to find the man with the sledgehammer, amongst a crowd of nurses and medical techs at the campus courtyard. A few other figures in grey MOPP suits joined him. She was about to walk towards her comrades, eager to chat with them for a bit, when she suddenly stopped her own tracks. Beneath the gas mask, her green eyes were widened and her jaw was half-open.

"Oh God…"

Seamus was standing near a collection of black body bags, neatly-arranged in rows and columns. There were dozens of them. The medics were either writing on charts or handling bodies with care. Any bag that was left half-open had a pale, lifeless, youthful face. Then, the Scotsman turned around. He saw Emma standing behind him, gawking. Beyond the tinted lenses of their masks, each could tell that the other was appalled by the sight.

"How many…?", she mustered the courage to ask.

"…Forty-four."

She gasped at the number. She felt her heart sink.

"…What?"

Then, her eyes caught a glimpse of a gurney, being pushed by a paramedic. It contained a body: a young woman, brown-haired, donning a maroon sweater. A spare MOPP breather was strapped to her face. Emma recognized her as the girl she saved. But there was something wrong. Her eyes were closed. Her face was pristine, but motionless. Her body seemed stiff. The paramedic, with the utmost respect, removed the breather from the girl's lips and carried her into an empty, black bag.

The female trooper felt her gut wrench. There had to be a mistake. It was… too much to take in.

"…Emma?"

The more the feeling sunk, the more her heart broke. Her eyes were wet. She closed her gloved hands into fists, shaking, as all semblance of composure slowly left her. She wanted to take of the mask and wipe the tears.

"I'm sorry, sir… I…*sniff* I-I shouldn't…"

But the leader felt her pain. He gave her a tight hug, from one comrade to another. He stroked the back of her head to comfort her.

"Don't be. Just… let it out…"

Emma buried her head into his chest. That was the only thing it took for her to break into a mess of sobs. Despite her best offers, despite her smarts and her selflessness, she failed to save one more life. What else she could've done? She gave everything she could. All she had left were tears. For all the young men and women she couldn't save.

The other Rainbow troopers looked on, silently. They also felt the lost. They killed the bad guys and stopped the bombs, but the mission wasn't a complete success. Despite their training, skills, and courage, forty-four innocent lives were taken. The dawning realization brought a mix of feelings to their hearts: sorrow, disappointment, hate. Bartlett University just became a blemish in Rainbow's otherwise sterling record.

But if there was any truth from this tragedy, Bartlett was only a taste of things to come. They need to be ready for what would happen next.

"Em. Listen to me...", Seamus told her. "…We're gonna find the bastards who did this, okay? …We're gonna find 'em, and we're gonna kill 'em all… Are you with me?"

She didn't answer.

…

* * *

…

Caleb was in the driver's seat of a Ford Explorer, looking out of the windscreen. The vehicle bore the shield and blue-and-grey colors of the Massachusetts State Police. He donned a uniform of a similar scheme; the crowd passed him off as just another cop. Calmly, he peered into a pair of binoculars to observe two more people in grey MOPP suits at the campus courtyard. The distance made it difficult to see them. But they were definitely there. Hugging.

"…Target six: male, large build, about six feet, three inches, breaching hammer at the back… Possibly the point man… Target seven: five feet, six to seven inches, small build… Probably, female…"

The bald man was talking to his earpiece.

"Hmm…", the caller spoke in a deep, garbled voice. "They seem to be the same commandos we faced in Abidjan…"

"You sure about that, sir?"

"I have to confirm it with my source in Virginia…"

Caleb let out a sigh of disappointment, leaning back on his seat. He spent a lot of resources just to draw this team of elite soldiers out, force them to come in full strength. The plan hinged on them doing their best performance, so that he could study their tactics better. He had a feeling that these guys were American Special Forces, using a very strange mix of local and foreign equipment. Heck, they could even be an international taskforce for all he knew. Yet the best that his boss can say about his hypothesis was 'maybe'?

"…You sound displeased, Caleb."

"Sir. We lost a lot of men for this."

"Hah. Don't worry about them; they were Leonard's guys. His usefulness was ending, anyway."

The bald man gave a little chuckle. His boss surely had a creative way of taking care of loose ends. But it's not like that the attack on Bartlett was a massive waste of time and resources. It sent a statement to the government. From here on out, the media would do the legwork. Besides, ditching his crew during the battle wasn't really a big deal. He worked better alone.

He never really knew any of them either. They wouldn't be missed.

"What about Adam?", he asked. "He's not exactly… committed."

"He still has a project for us. Let him be, for now."

Caleb didn't like hearing that too. He had been itching for an excuse to kill the pompous bastard ever since he came on board.

"I think we've accomplished our objectives today...", the man on the phone informed him. "…Get out of there now."

"They're still on site, boss. I haven't seen any Blackhawks for-"

"No need for that, son. I'm suspending all operations against Team Rainbow for now. We know enough…"

Without saying a word, Caleb turned the ignition and pushed the handbrake. He tossed the binoculars to the passenger's seat, forming a small pile with his white balaclava and his grey hoodie. They were still damp and musky after he decontaminated them on his own. But he'd probably ditch them in a dumpster anyway, as a precaution. He should start getting used to the disguises.

"…I'll also get word out to our cells in Europe and Asia to move the timetable."

"So… you want me back, sir?"

The caller paused for a bit.

"Not yet. I need you to meet with the Engineer in Redmond, plan the next phase of the operation…"

That only meant one thing: 'Freedom Day'. For some reason, it brought a little smile to the stoic former Marine's face.

"…I've booked you a flight to Oregon at Logan International. Sending you the details now."

"Copy that, sir. Oscar Mike, out."

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** As promised, here is my version of the 'Article 5' situation, which follows the last chapter of my "Behind the Mask" series. To be honest, I was tempted to give Team Rainbow a standard set of weapons (like an HK 416 or something), just like how it was in Tom Clancy's original novel (MP10) and the Article 5 cinematic (R-4C). But I think the FAMAS is part of Twitch's character, just as how the 6P41 and AK12 are synonymous with Fuze, etc. So, I'll be using their in-game weaponry from here on out. Thank you for reading and please stay tuned for the next chapter! :)


	3. Chapter 2 - Back in the Saddle

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two - "Back in the Saddle"**

* * *

Brooke Army Medical Center (BAMC), Fort Sam Houston, Texas  
0700 hours

Two days later

...

 _"…The death toll from Friday's attack at Bartlett University continues to rise. At 4 o'clock this morning, a Boston hospital reported that two more victims, both freshmen at the Bartlett College of Law, have died in intensive care due to respiratory failure caused by the mysterious chemical released into the campus... This brings the total number of civilian fatalities to 60, in what is now called the worst domestic terrorist attack in America since the Oklahoma City Bombing of 1995…"_

 _..._

The hi-def screen showed images of cops, medics, and body bags, set on the backdrop of a school building. With his arms crossed, Ethan kept his eyes glued to the TV, mounted on a wall in the hospital's lobby. He watched the news from this very spot two days earlier, wearing something other than this morning's purple shirt and coffee-colored denims. His shaven face showed a collection of tiny scars in his right check and nose bridge, but that was nothing compared to the plethora of old wounds hidden under his clothes.

There were two gym bags beside the former soldier's feet. Yesterday was his last day on the job, and someone would be picking him up this morning.

...

 _"…The attack is believed to have been perpetrated by members of the extremist group 'America's True Patriots' led by Leonard Fausse, Gulf War veteran and self-proclaimed populist revolutionary. The ATP, which started as a political movement advocating for government reform, has since been labeled a terrorist organization, responsible for numerous murders, robberies, and bombings across the United States in recent years…"_

 _..._

Like most people on that fateful day, Ethan was just minding his business when someone told him to come to the TV. He watched, powerlessly, as the slaughter unfolded on national television. It was dreadful. His first thought was to slip away from the hospital, find the base commander, and ask for clearance to rejoin his unit at Fort Bragg. He was fired up. It felt like he was shirking from his job, watching Bartlett become a war zone while he got to hang back at the physical therapy ward. Yet, reality quickly reminded him that he wasn't fit for active duty. Until yesterday, he didn't even have a medical certificate. For all intents and purposes, he was a patient, not a soldier. And so, he had no choice but to witness the aftermath of yet another tragedy.

This was different, however. A 'domestic terrorist attack', as the news called it. Ethan had been fighting across the world for a very long time that he almost forgot about the bad guys back home. Right-wing fanatics, renegade militias, violent psychopaths. This time, it's the ATP. Usually, it's the cops and the Feds who manned the frontlines in this kind of war. But judging from the brief glimpses of grey-clad soldiers on the news, Bartlett seemed like the first time that the Special Operations Command was deployed to fight _other_ Americans. At least, officially. The good guys would never run out of enemies, that much was certain.

...

 _"...Federal intelligence agencies have come under scrutiny for failing to prevent the attack on Bartlett. The CIA, in particular, is being grilled after rumors surfaced that the ATP obtained its chemical weapons from a terrorist cell in the Middle East... As a result, some in Congress now wish to revisit the proposed Enhanced Domestic Defense Act, which was shelved after last year's public backlash. Opponents of the proposal have previously denounced its provisions as, quote unquote, the basic building blocks for a police state..."_

...

"Jesus… Give me a break…", a woman beside Ethan snorted at the newscaster's words in disgust.

It was Emily. The former CIA case officer wore a zipped-up brown jacket and a pair of jeans. Her auburn hair was tied into a bun, with a bang combed to the right side of her face, exposing a nasty-looking horizontal scar on her forehead. A reminder of what a rifle's buttstock could do to a human skull. Even though she could've had the scar removed through surgery, Emily opted to keep it as a sign of respect to those who died in her stead. She felt obligated to visit Ethan today, as she had done a few times before; an apology for bringing him and his team along for that colossal fuck-up they barely walked away from in one piece.

She was stone-faced as she watched the TV with him. But she seemed bothered by the news nonetheless, as if every blame and harsh word spoken felt like a personal attack. The brown-haired soldier could see it in her eyes.

...

 _"…There is little doubt that Bartlett will take center-stage at next month's Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in New York, coinciding with the observance of Juneteenth across the United States… The White House has assured the public that a thorough investigation about negligence within the CIA and other agencies will be conducted, as the manhunt for Leonard Fausse and the remnants of the ATP begins in earnest..."_

 _..._

She placed her hands on her waist and lowered her head. From the way she huffed each breath, it was clear that the news hit a sore spot on her psyche. It was hard for Ethan to not feel her plight. Most times, it was difficult to read her mind.

"Don't take them seriously, Emily. Everyone is just upset..."

"Upset?!", she turned to him, trying her best not to shout. "These bastards are _blaming_ us for the attack! Like they're telling everyone we were sleeping on the job when those kids were gassed!"

'Frustrated' was an apt term to describe her feelings. She was a patriot. She believed in the cause with all her heart, and she tried her damnedest to keep her country's enemies from winning. And when she failed her mission? She was condemned, not just criticized. She was pulled from field work and relegated to a desk job. One blunder was all it took to effectively end her career. If Ethan was in Emily's shoes, he'd be pissed as well to see all his work and sacrifice be buried by frigging bureaucrats.

But he had a different set of problems to worry about. He suffered shrapnel wounds, a cracked skull, and internal bleeding from the bomb blast that killed his friend. He had to fight for his life at the operating table in Ramstein. And when he was flown stateside, he had to endure months of painful surgery and rehabilitation to get him back on his feet. All throughout, his family was worried half to death for him. His daughter spent many nights crying herself to sleep, wishing for her daddy to wake up. The former missus, even though they rarely saw eye-to-eye anymore, shed tears when she saw him lying on a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages.

There was also a sense of guilt on Ethan's part. He wanted to find peace knowing that Gabe and the others died doing their duty. But deep inside, he knew that he should've done better. He should've been killed with them. His luck kept him alive, yet it might take more than all the time in the world to get over that fact.

Alas, there's no use crying over spilled milk at this point.

"They can't treat us like this…", the redhead continued. "…One of these days, people will realize that they need us more than they think..."

"Emily…"

"Ugh. Don't mind me. I'm just… rambling."

Ethan took her words in stride. There was another reason for her feelings. Compound Z. The gas used at Bartlett seemed to match the weapon they tried to seize in the Middle East all those months ago, half the world away. It ticked too many boxes to write off the semblance as a simple coincidence: the color of the gas, the symptoms on the victims, the method of delivery. Neither he nor Emily had concrete proof to back their claims, but they shared the same gut feeling. Both wanted to act on their hunch, even though the ex-case officer could only do little from behind a desk.

The soldier, meanwhile, felt it was his duty to set things right. All those kids who died deserved justice. He was hoping that his new job would give him that chance; he had his suspicions as to what 'Rainbow' was all about, but the name was too ambiguous to tell him anything about it.

...

" _…In other news: the search for the Canadian luxury yacht, the Aklark, has been suspended indefinitely. American volunteer rescue crews at Prince Edward Island were finally recalled after weeks of searching failed to locate even a piece of the vessel. The Aklark is believed to have sunk into the Atlantic after making an unannounced voyage from its port in Charlottetown last month..."_

 _..._

The TV no longer had anything of interest. Ethan contemplated about going to the cantina to grab a quick snack or spending a few more minutes idly chatting with his former handler. It was here when one of the hospital's clerks approached him. The young lady in the bright blue hospital uniform had a pleasant smile, not too terribly out of place in a military facility.

"Excuse me, Sergeant Mallory? There's a Mr. Cowden waiting for you outside…"

Ethan returned the favor and nodded. A look at the wristwatch confirmed that his first meeting with Rainbow was right on time; he was impressed by the man's punctuality. Sighing to himself, he picked up the two duffel bags resting on the floor. The redhaired woman noticed his gestures.

"Your ride is here already?", she asked.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so..."

She looked at him rather thoughtfully, her arms still on her waist. Ethan had a brief staring contest with her, as if both of them completely forgot about the day's itinerary.

Today was to be their last meeting, at least for a while. Though Emily would remain in Virginia as a glorified clerk at the CIA Headquarters, her 'muscle' would be flying to the UK for a job that the Pentagon offered him a few months before. Today felt like a bittersweet goodbye. They've only worked together briefly, but there was no denying the little bond that they had shared in the months that followed their last mission. They were survivors. And in a way, they were both soldiers too.

"I guess this it...", he offered her a handshake. "Thanks for, uh, watching my back…"

The woman chuckled, before clasping her hand with his. He was a bit surprised that she wanted none of the cheesy sentimentality.

"Don't worry, Ace. I'll keep tabs on you. You can't hide from the CIA."

Another giggle. Spooks always have had a bad sense of humor, even when talking with their friends. However, he knew her words were also a thinly-veiled threat to him, in a way. He never told her about his new job. For a woman whose bread-and-butter was secrets and information, Emily _absolutely_ despised her ignorance on any subject. More so if that 'subject' pertained to one of the few people left she could trust. She would probably pry him for details about his honorable discharge later, Ethan noted to himself.

"You sure you don't want a lift?", he asked her. "I can ask the driver if you can tag along…"

"No, I'm good. A friend of mine's gonna pick me up. Besides, I still have some business to take care of at the base anyway..."

"Well, suit yourself… I'll see you around."

With one final smirk, Ethan turned around and walked away, leaving the woman alone at the lobby with her arms crossed and her face slightly smiling. The man moved past a couple of guards, crossing the tinted glass doors of BAMC's main lobby with duffel bags on each hand. There was a black Chevy Suburban parked near the visitors' pick-up area, instantly setting it apart from the dull-looking taxis, ambulances, and other private cars. Standing beside the SUV was a tall, white man with a bald head, a massive body, and a pistol holster strapped to his thigh. He wore a sensible-looking white shirt and baggy black pants, as well as a pair of dark sunglasses to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun. This was the British guy sent to pick him up.

"Mr. Cowden, I assume?"

"And you must be Ethan Mallory. We talked over the phone yesterday...", the man spoke in a Scottish accent.

The two men shook hands. Right off the bat, Ethan pegged this Cowden-fellow as a former soldier, maybe an ex-Para or Commando, judging by his intimidating physique. Meeting face-to-face, the man also had an aura of authority that would only come from a respectable leader. If both guesses were right on the money, then it would be a bit weird for this guy to be the designated errand boy, tasked with the mundane job of fetching Rainbow's latest greenhorn.

"…You all set, mate? The boss wants us to get goin' soon."

"Yeah, I'm ready...", he shrugged.

With that, they made their way to the vehicle. As courtesy, the larger man opened the passenger door and helped his charge with the bags. With a nod of thanks, Ethan stepped inside the vehicle, taking a few moments to appreciate its fine interior. Premium cloth seats, vinyl flooring, black-tinted windows. It also seemed that the vehicle's body was fitted with Kelvar meshes and armor panels. Top-of-the-line government stuff.

He took a spot for himself in one of the seats, and was immediately greeted by a dark-skinned woman in a business suit.

"Mr. Mallory. Nice to see you again in the flesh.", she held out her hand.

He instantly recognized the voice. She was the same lady who offered him the job opening at Rainbow, all those months ago. The same short hair, the same straight-laced look, the same deep contralto. There was a black briefcase beside her seat.

"Ma'am...", he shook her hand with a firm grip. "…I'm afraid I didn't catch your _real_ name the last time we met…"

"And I hope you never will. Just call me 'Six'."

Six. The standard designation for an American military unit's commanding officer. The second time she insisted using the title. A part of Ethan still wondered why this lady preferred that name, as not even the top brass in the Army opted to use it. Like Cowden, she exuded a commanding presence inside the vehicle. Of course, that was to be expected from a senior-level official from the Pentagon, assuming she was forthcoming with her credentials anyway.

From the passenger's seat, Ethan saw the Scottish man sit beside the driver, with a cellphone to his ear. A few seconds later, the engine roared to life and the SUV began the drive out of the hospital's front entrance. As they made their way to the George Beach Avenue, the woman wasted no time making the introductions. Small-talk, to be more specific.

"I trust you're well, Sergeant?"

"Yes ma'am.", he replied. "Well, at least that's what my medical certificate says... My hands are still a bit stiff."

"Ah, I see... 'Operation Witch Hunt', was it?"

Taken aback by her question, he paused for a few seconds. How the hell did she know about that?

"I… don't know what you're talking about, ma'am."

"Hmph. Don't play dumb with me, Sergeant...", she rebuked him. "…But it's fine; we'll help you get back in the saddle once you're settled in..."

Ethan nodded with a slight smirk in his lips, keeping his composure. He didn't want to sound ungrateful for her concern, but he was trying not to think about what happened in the Middle East all that much. The numbness in his muscles and the painkillers in his system were more than enough to remind him of his recent dance with death. But the fact that this lady knew classified information like 'Witch Hunt' made it clear that there was no use hiding anything from her. Like Emily, this woman also dealt with secrets for a living.

The air suddenly felt a bit tense, like in a job interview. Admittedly, Ethan was quite anxious. He thought he had everything already figured out. But the first few seconds after sitting in the vehicle, he realized that he didn't really have a complete, clear-cut understanding of what he signed up for. All he knew about 'Rainbow' was that it was a multi-national group based somewhere in the UK, working closely with the Department of Defense. The Program's preference for ex-soldiers was hardly anything out of the ordinary in a government agency, especially for an agency attached to the Pentagon.

If he would hazard a guess, Rainbow might have been created as a wet-works unit. The kind of group that did things that the morning news didn't talk about, what normal, sensible people didn't want to know. Considering that this 'Six' lady described Rainbow to him as an international group, then it was safe to assume that its mandate was something amenable with the rest of the world. Otherwise, the Brits would not have sheltered this group within their borders.

"So…", Ethan opened. "...Mind if I ask what this 'Rainbow' thing is really about? None of the DOD guys I know have ever mentioned you before…"

It took a lot of gall to ask something like that so blatantly. Somehow, Six liked that. She smiled; she already expected him to ask that question the moment he opened set foot on the vehicle.

"We are what the name implies, Mr. Mallory.", she went on. "Rainbow. Different colors. Different shades. But a single form and direction..."

"And that direction is…?"

She sat up straight, rather than answer Ethan's question.

"The world is, and always will be, a dangerous place... Throughout history, 'danger' came in many forms: barbarism, genocide, religious wars, nuclear annihilation... Today, 'danger' is any act of violence committed by individuals in the name of some twisted ideology… Two days ago, we saw this happen to Bartlett."

That was one way of describing 'terrorism'. This woman had a way of using words.

"…Someone has to keep the world safe. Someone has to stop these dangerous men...", Six continued. "…And in this day and age, the best way to stop them is for people to band together. Fight back, regardless of flag or race. Regardless of previous grudges…"

At that moment, Ethan felt his lips starting to turn. His suspicions were correct: Rainbow was a military unit. Specifically, an anti-terrorism taskforce so secret that not even his country's top military experts were aware of its existence. The dawning realization gave him a mix of emotions, but dread was not among them. There was a small fear that he would be recruited as a consultant or instructor of-sorts, a job where he wouldn't have a chance to use his talents. He could rest easy. On the contrary, it seemed he was about to return to the fray. It felt like he was about to take part in something grand. For better or for worse.

"You're talking about a global counter-terror taskforce…", he commented.

"Correct."

"Under whose authority?"

"Article 5 of the NATO Treaty, Sergeant... An attack on one country is considered an attack on everyone…"

Again, she didn't give him a straight answer. The refresher on the North Atlantic Treaty Organization's Principle of Collective Defense wasn't even necessary. The woman continued her lecture nonetheless.

"…Officially, Team Rainbow is just another item in the Department of Defense's Office for Special Projects. We get our funding through the Interior Department and most of our assets are provided by NATO members…"

"And unofficially?", Ethan asked.

"We answer to no authority, save for which gave us form and function... We do not recognize international borders... We only recruit the best... We do whatever it takes to stop the bad guys. Plain and simple."

It sounded too good and too ambitious to be true. A multi-country police force, with the entire globe as its jurisdiction. Near limitless resources from the most powerful nations on Earth. Complete authority to intercede in terrorist attacks, thereby overriding the local authorities and their protocols. It sounded too maverick as well, but the scale of a threat often demanded a similar or greater level of response. In this case, global terrorism could only be fixed by a global organization. After all, today's bad guys weren't the same as those from the last century. Ruthless, merciless, and infinitely more resourceful.

"Bad guys like the ATP…"

"The True Patriots are nothing but a band of bullies.", Six corrected him. "What we are facing is an enemy we've never seen before..."

"What do you mean?"

With that, she pulled out a brown folder from the briefcase on her seat. The folder was emblazoned with the symbol of the US Department of Defense and was also stamped 'Top Secret' in red ink. Then, the woman handed the folder to Ethan, who promptly opened it. To his surprise, he was presented with a collection of forms, notes, and other documents, written in different languages. Russian, German, French, and English.

They were portfolios, separated from each other with metal clips. A mish mash of after-action reports from police and military organizations across the world. The documents were accompanied by security camera footage of armed men with bone-white ballistic masks fighting cops and soldiers in different locations. A trendy café in Moscow during Christmastime. The Port of Hamburg. The French Consulate in the Ivory Coast's capital. An apartment in Canary Wharf, London. There were other pictures of corpses, bullet-ridden walls, and blood-smeared floors. A look at their respective timestamps revealed that these events happened over a span of months, not too long ago. Around the same time that Ethan was convalescing from his wounds.

"What does any of this have to do with the ATP?", he raised an eyebrow.

"The ones behind those attacks also carried out the attack on Bartlett, two days ago."

"Huh? I thought-"

"Mr. Mallory, do you honestly think that a right-wing militia in Oregon can smuggle _chemical_ weapons into the United States that easily?"

She smiled after she spoke, as if she was relishing the fact that he was yet to make a connection. Then, Six handed Ethan another portfolio, this time strewn with the obvious symbols of the Department of Homeland Security. To the man's silent awe, he was given a copy of the DHS's preliminary report on the attack on Bartlett University, two days ago. The file was several dozen pages long, but there were a handful of papers that caught the man's eye when he sifted through them. A list of names pertaining to the ATP members who were killed on that day. Descriptive background information of some of the victims, many of whom came from intellectual, upper-middle class families. There was also a detailed transcript of radio messages exchanged by the American soldiers, who were sent to respond to the attack.

 _What in the world...?_

Their names felt a bit off. As Ethan read the transcription, he noticed that many of these soldiers... were _not_ American. Seamus Cowden. Shuhrat Kessikbayev. Gilles Touré. Some girl named Emmanuelle Pichon. These people also used brevity codes that weren't standard with the military.

It was here when an epiphany came. The files he was given were strewn with bits of extremely sensitive information, normally seen by those in the highest levels of government. If the lady had copies of these files, then her organization must have been intimately involved in the events they described. Piecing them together, his face was awed, as he slowly realized the woman's point. These weren't just police reports. These were the missions carried out by Team Rainbow. And it was _they_ who fought at Bartlett.

Ethan shifted in his seat to be more comfortable. This woman's doubts about the True Patriots suddenly made more sense. Anyone with a basic understanding of management and military logistics would know that the ATP was too small-time and too localized to have such a long reach. They'd need a rich, powerful, and influential backer to obtain the Compound Z, let alone other weapons of mass destruction, and ship them into the Commonwealth.

"Though the True Patriots carried out the attack, they didn't do it alone.", the black woman explained. "We believe they were assimilated by a much larger group, because Bartlett was the first time they wore those masks…"

"So, these _other_ people in the files... Who are they?"

Before she answered his question, Six motioned for Ethan to hand her back the papers. He did as he was told, but he spared one last glimpse at the photos. They had one thing in common: a hooded figure, armed to the teeth, with an ivory face plate to conceal his identity.

"The White Masks."

" _White Masks_? Uh-huh..."

"That's what Homeland Security called them at least... We can't exactly interrogate a dead terrorist for answers."

Six leaned on her seat, frowning. She was visibly unimpressed by her own answer, but she continued nonetheless.

"…Unlike the people we faced in Europe and Africa, the True Patriots still have their IDs and Social Security Numbers... The White Masks, on the other hand, have nothing of the sort… They've yet to match anyone from the NSA database, or anyone else's for that matter… No fingerprint profiles, no DNA matches… They're ghosts."

"..."

"What we _do_ know is that they're Americans. Or at least, they know how to mimic the accent..."

Ethan nodded like an attentive student. The description certainly raised a red flag on his head; these people didn't sound like anyone he fought against before. 'American terrorists'. The man felt uneasy thinking about it. Was this for real? Why would some Americans choose to live off the grid, take up arms, and kill innocent people in some foreign country? And to think they even evaded the NSA. These people must be very crafty and resourceful; probably mirroring their own ruthlessness.

"…What do they want? Why did they attack a university?"

"We don't know.", she shook her head. "As much as we want to investigate their motives, we're too busy putting out the fires they start… We can only do so much with too few hands on deck…"

The last sentence surprised him a bit. He didn't think that Rainbow actually had a shortage on manpower. And if they agreed to hire him now, a former patient at BAMC who still might still need medication to ease his surgeries' side-effects, then they must be very desperate. Why they didn't extend the offer to the rest of his platoon was beyond him.

"So you need me. Another shooter.", Ethan spoke.

"And what's wrong with you?"

Crossing her legs, Six produced another folder from her briefcase. This time, however, it was cream-colored and stamped with the unmistakable insignia of the Department of the Army.

"...1st Battalion 75th Rangers, Alpha Company Sniper Section... Special Forces Operational Detachment-D... CIA Special Activities Division... A Bronze Star for Valor, twice awarded the Purple Heart… A total of eleven tours in the Middle East and Africa…"

The folder contained the original copy of Ethan's service record, fresh from Fort Bragg, much to his consternation. It felt a little embarrassing to hear about his own achievements- words that don't really mean anything among brothers. But if Gabe was sitting beside him right now, he'd probably smack his head for acting all meek and modest, but no bravado. 'Serve with pride _and_ humility', as he used to say.

"…Minus your last mission with the CIA, I say you have quite a spotless record, Sergeant…"

"I'm... flattered, ma'am."

He felt unworthy of the praise. Anyone with a 'spotless record' would finish the mission and get all of his friends back home safe and sound. The last time he went out on the field, he failed on both counts. A terrorist was rescued by his friends, a rogue biochemical weapon went missing, and nine new tombstones were added to Arlington. He was lucky he survived at all.

"Though I must say...", Six clasped her hands. "...I really hope you're up for the task. We can't afford to have a weak link."

"Ma'am?"

"We're about to hunt the sons of bitches responsible for these attacks..."

With that, the air inside the vehicle became even more tense. She was obviously referring to Ethan's current state. His wounds have just recently healed and he was barely out of his physical therapy program. To transition to a working environment so soon might be a tad more than his body could handle. And besides, it had been months since he even picked up a gun on a firing range. There was good reason to suspect that the good soldier may have lost his edge.

But he wasn't fazed by any of that. Now more than ever, the man wanted to prove himself to this lady. He could still retrain and fight like he used to. He could take on whatever evaluations and exams they throw his way to see if he was still an excellent trooper. He would be ready for duty again, stakes be damned. He needed this chance. It was the only way for him to make up for his failure. It was the only way to bring justice to those kids who lost their lives in Bartlett. To make sure that Gabe, Omar, and the others didn't die in vain.

"I promise I won't let you down.", Ethan spoke with firm conviction. "I'm looking forward to meeting the team in England."

For some reason, Six simply chuckled at his statement. It was puzzling. Did he say something wrong? Then out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the SUV took a turn to Interstate 35. They were headed to San Antonio Airport.

"…We're not sending you to England, Sergeant."

" So… where are you taking me then?"

…

* * *

Pope Army Airfield, Fort Bragg, North Carolina  
1310 Hours

...

"…No, sir. The Deputy Director is not yet back from her trip...", Meghan spoke to her cellphone.

The ex-Navy SEAL's voice resonated throughout the large aircraft hangar, refurbished into Rainbow's armory and workshop. She competed with the radio, which was blaring some random pop song, and the screeching noise of the tooling machine used by Shuhrat and Marius on the other side. Emma did her best to ignore the distractions; the broken RSD-1 on her workbench demanded her full attention. One errant twitch from her fingers, and the soldering iron would burn the microprocessor in the drone's motherboard. She needed to concentrate.

Meghan, on the other hand, continued her conversation.

"...Yes sir... Yes sir... I'll make sure she gets your message... Yes sir. Thank you, sir…"

At last, the call finally ended. The blonde woman was infinitely relieved, judging by her venomous words.

"Jesus fucking Christ... What am I, a goddamn secretary?!"

"Who was that?", the Frenchwoman asked. She didn't move her eyes away from her busted shock drone.

"It's Director Treadway again... This is like the third time he called us today…"

Director Robert Treadway, Chief of Operations Coordination at the Department of Homeland Security. As a foreigner, Emma found American bureaucracy to be a confusing subject. But from what she had gathered, this guy was basically in charge of talking with various agencies for matters involving terrorism, national security, and the like. He probably phoned them again to discuss top-level stuff with Six. A lot of people had been looking for her recently, come to think of it. DHS, ATF, NSA, CIA, JSOC… there were so many names to remember.

 _Focus. Focus, Emmanuelle…_

Discarding the train of thought, she resumed her work on the RSD-1 shock drone, which was put out of action two days ago. The drone's chassis was thoroughly ventilated by 5.56mm rounds and much of its internal wiring was destroyed. The tazer module was easy to fix, much to the engineer's relief, but the rest of the components needed replacing. The camera, however, was unsalvageable. The only way for her to 'fix' it was to cannibalize one of the team's reconnaissance drones for a spare. Luckily, the workshop had the right tools and machinery for her to fabricate the rest of the pieces. She already spent the entire yesterday creating a brand-new chassis and she started working on the circuits earlier today. With luck, she can get her robot up and running again by tomorrow.

She smiled to herself. If Markie was here with her right now, he would give her an earful on how careless she was with handling military property. Julien would step in to defend her, saying that she was an expert who knew what she was doing, even if he never understood technical stuff such as this like his life depended on it. Gustave would intervene, try to keep the peace, and Elias would quip about how petty squabbles between boys and girls usually end up in marriage. And then Baker would tell them to shut the hell up and get back to work, like the perpetually-crossed old man that he was.

It's only been a little more than week since she flew from England, but she missed the rest of the gang already. She wondered if things would have been different if they joined the battle at Bartlett…

 _There we go!_

With one last spark from the soldering iron, the processor was finally secured into place. After a brief mental pat on the back, she installed the circuit to the shock drone's chassis, meticulously rewiring all the necessary cables into the motherboard to prep it up for an input test. Using the drone wrist pad, which was sitting idly by at the workbench, Emma activated her little robot and tapped a few commands into the arrow keys. To her relief, the drone wheels turned for each button press. A laugh escaped her lips as she savored yet another victory for the day.

"Oh, you got that thing working again, huh?", Meghan approached her.

"Yep, finally!", she smiled. "I still got to work on the gearboxes, but at least there's progress..."

The American turned her lips and crossed her arms.

"You know, Twitch... you could have just let Fuze help you with that. Save more time."

She was taken aback by her suggestion, feigning a horrified look on her face. The Russian machinist, meanwhile, was too engrossed in his task that he seemingly didn't hear the girl talk about him that just started.

"What? Have you seen how he works?"

"I'm sure he won't use a hammer on your baby...", Meghan chided.

" _Je m'en fiche_ (I don't care)! I'll never let him touch my stuff!"

'He's a savage!', was the next friendly jab that entered her mind, but she immediately held back, just stopping short at speaking it aloud. 'Savage' reminded her about how the team's demolitions expert fought at Bartlett two days ago. The way Shuhrat beat a man to a pulp, the way he removed the poor bastard's gas mask and let him suffocate to death... The image still horrified her to some extent. She hadn't spoken to him since that last mission.

In fact, that was one thing that Emma noticed about herself. Ever since the attack, she wasn't as sprightly as she used to be. She purposely missed out last night's pub crawl with Jordan and the others, which was their way of removing their minds from what happened two days ago. She insisted on staying behind to work on her busted shock drone. But that wasn't the real reason. She couldn't be with her comrades, not when the deaths of those kids in Bartlett still weighed heavily upon her. In particular, the young girl that the team tried, and ultimately failed to save; that memory felt too close to home. It was hard for the Frenchwoman to distance herself from another 'statistic', not when she could still vividly remember the girl's face and her faint breaths as she held on for dear life...

The biggest pitfall of empathy. It allowed her to feel and internalize everything, including grief. Deep inside, she wanted some time off for herself and mourn for those poor souls. But she couldn't leave the team for that, especially now that they needed her talents more than ever. And so, she had no other choice but to feign happiness. Pretend that she was right as rain. How she would bounce back from this was another problem for another time.

"By the way...", she changed the subject, wearing a faux smile. "...What did Treadway want?"

"Oh, nothing big.", Meghan replied. "He just had some things to discuss about that Summit on the Juneteenth..."

"June-what?"

"Juneteenth. 'Freedom Day'. The emancipation of slaves…"

The peculiar term eluded Emma for a while, until she suddenly remembered the morning news. The Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in New York was only a few weeks away, scheduled on the same day as the annual federal observance for June. She reminded herself that she needed to keep up with American holidays. Forgetting important dates was a common pitfall for those who often work overseas.

"...I think Treadway wants Rainbow to pull security on the Summit.", the blonde woman continued.

"Will we?"

"I don't know. I still need to talk to the boss-lady about it."

Rainbow also had to hunt down the ones responsible for the attack on Bartlett, Emma noted to herself. The news said it was a group called ATP, but Rainbow knew more. The 'White Masks', so-named by their most common article of clothing. The bastards never spoke about themselves, so the American government saw fit to give them a bland name. But really, it didn't matter what they really called themselves; many in the team would rather see them dead than brought to justice. Even the woman who valued compassion and camaraderie above many things was eager to join the warpath.

She and Meghan continued their chatting, until they heard another set of footsteps enter the hangar. Turning around, they saw a man strolling through the entrance, carrying a gym bag in each hand. Emma had never seen him before. He had brown hair, fair skin, grey eyes, a large build, and a square-ish face. He had a few marks on his cheek and nose, and his chin looked recently-shaved. He donned a collared purple shirt and a pair of beige pants. He also had a fierce, yet stoic, look, like someone who had seen his fair share of trouble before. By her estimates, this guy was almost a head taller than she was.

He appeared to be lost.

"Excuse me?", she called to him. "Can we help with you something?"

"Yeah, uh... I'm looking for Valkyrie? I was told that she's here..."

The blonde woman didn't react. She let her French friend do the talking.

"Who's asking?"

"Ethan Mallory..."

With that, the man lowered his bags and offered his right hand. His lips turned into a gentle smile.

"...I'm your new sharpshooter. You can call me 'Ace'."

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** "America's True Patriots" (cheesy name, I know) is a reference to "The True Patriots", the main antagonists of the now-cancelled Rainbow Six: Patriots. Apologies if this chapter contained a lot of exposition; the next chapter will be more action-oriented. And thank you very, _very_ much for the follows and reviews; I didn't expect this story to perform so well. You guys are the best! :)


	4. Chapter 3 - Now it Begins

**Update (06/02/2017):** Changed a few words and phrases, per feedback. I also realized that I made a few plot errors with this chapter, and they have since been corrected.

* * *

 **Chapter Three - "Now it Begins"**

* * *

En Route to "La Perla Blanca", Ibiza, Spain  
0130 hours (CET)  
Five days after Bartlett

...

It's rave night. As usual, the world-famous hotel-and-club sitting at the easternmost tip of Vila d'Eivissa was a full house. Debutantes, hormone-addled teens, and haughty socialites. Ryad Ramirez came to this conclusion simply on account of the loud party music, blaring from the distance. The rough waves and strong winds of the night weren't enough to mute the noise.

 _Kids these days..._

He peered into the lenses of his Steiner 10x50, keeping his hands steady even as the sea rocked the boat. La Perla Blanca, 'The White Pearl', was absolutely bristling with lights, even from half a mile away. The partyplace looked like an anomaly, a little piece of the 21st Century beside the ruins of a medieval watchtower. Ancient walls draped in moss were also covered with flat-screen TVs and neon sparklers. The old courtyard was converted into a swimming pool, where all kinds of revelry take place. And the palm trees looked imported- they most definitely didn't grow at the rocky cliffs of the island. The magnificent Castillo de Ibiza, perched on the distant hill, dominated the background.

Putting the binoculars away, Ryad lowered the Eyenox Model III resting on his crown and hoisted the custom C7E across his torso. He hoped that the party would distract everyone from the commandos approaching from the west. His inflatable Zodiac was among a small fleet of five boats, carrying a total of 40 men, speeding its way towards the coastline. The assault teams didn't have any ship support or helicopter cover, and so they had to use the starless sky and quiet humming of the boat engines to conceal their movement. Another company of special forces police was also en route, on a convoy of at least ten vehicles, several kilometers away.

God-willing, tonight would be the biggest drug bust in Ibiza for the Policía Nacional this year.

 _"Treinta segundos_. (30 seconds.)", Ryad told his men.

Everyone performed a last-minute weapons check in response. Actions were cleared, scopes were inspected, and laser sights were activated. The team was armed with a mix of suppressed SMGs and assault rifles for this mission, all loaded with hollow point rounds to minimize collateral damage. Flashbangs and tear gas would be used for crowd control, when needed. With their guns checked out, the masked commandos proceeded to inspect each other's black wetsuits and tactical vests. The eight members of Team One were expecting a lot trouble tonight, more so given the number of non-combatants waiting for them on the shore.

*Yawn*

A man let out a whiff of air. It was Ryad's second-in-command.

" _Oye_ (Hey), Garza...", he snapped a finger in front of the man. "… _No te duermas ahora_ (Don't fall asleep now)."

"*sigh* _Soy un_ _madrugador, señor_ , _no como tú..._ (I'm a morning person, sir, unlike you...)", he grumbled, much to his superior's amusement.

Everyone went past their bed time tonight just for this mission. For the team leader, this was nothing more than another day in the field. To be fair, a part of him also wanted be elsewhere rather than to be risking his neck; he still had some case files to review back in Madrid.

The party music became louder as their boat reached the southern dock, completely undetected. Perfect timing. Using hand signals, Ryad ordered his team to disembark, one man at a time. They hopped ashore, as quiet as mice, and hugged the wall near the stairs leading to the ruins. The last commando towed a line from their Zodiac to one of the docking posts, tying the rope firmly to prevent the boat from drifting away. Everyone kept to the shadows to avoid detection. Heedless of the teens and yuppies having a good time on the floor above them, the commandos entered the next phase of the mission.

" _Cero-Uno a Comando Central…_ (Zero-One to Central Command…)", the leader called in. "… _En posición_ _y_ _esperando órdenes_ (…In position and awaiting orders)."

" _Entendido_. (Understood _._ )", the GEO dispatcher replied.

The other assault teams followed suit, filling the encrypted channels with status reports.

Their target for tonight was a man named Priego. A tall, chubby fellow, somewhere between his early to mid-forties. Interpol described him as a low-level drug dealer with a clientele spanning much of the Mediterranean. Early this year, he rose to prestige after striking a good deal with some powerful group in America. In exchange for a huge sum of money, he was given a slice of the lucrative, cross border drug trade wracking the United States, sinking his teeth into some high-quality cocaine that would otherwise be too expensive to import. Needless to say, he was a top dog now. And he just painted a big bright red target on himself for the cops.

The intelligence reports say that the man was due to close a major cocaine transaction tonight at La Perla Blanca. Ryad wondered why Priego opted to hold this deal at a public place, in the middle of a crowd, and tonight of all nights. Hubris was in play, most likely. But on the other hand, the club was essentially a giant human shield; anyone who'd come after him tonight would need to be _extra_ careful about killing innocent kids, lest they end up on the morning news in the worst possible way.

As the music blared on for the seemingly-oblivious partygoers, a female voice spoke in the radio. It was Elena.

" _Cero-Seis_ (Zero-Six) _a Comando Central_. _Estamos a un minuto del objetivo._ (We're one minute from the target.)", she told the dispatcher.

 _"Entendido, Seis. Copiamos_ (We copy)."

Officer Elena Álvarez was in the lead vehicle of the police convoy, presumably speeding its way to the club. She and the rest of Team Six would come in from the northeast as a distraction, allowing Team One and the others to strike from the south and the west simultaneously. The sudden, pincer attack should catch Priego and any other bad guy off-guard. While panic would undoubtedly ensue, everyone had strict orders to keep the crowd contained during the advance. Nobody was to open fire unless they were cleared to do so. The show of force should be enough to prevent needless violence, hence the large number of GEO commandos involved in this mission.

Fifteen seconds left. Ryad took the brief downtime as a chance to clear his mind, put his game face on for the task at hand. Drown out the obnoxious noise of the party. Forget about the cold case files, he told himself. Forget the decades' worth of notes and leads that needed his attention back in Madrid. After this mission, there would be plenty of time for the grizzled cop to resume his personal quests. He just needed to get this job done and get his men back home safe. With luck, he might actually get a good night's sleep this time as well.

That's probably what his brother would've said...

"¡Trujillo!", Elena radioed to her driver in a louder voice _. "¡Rompan la puerta!_ (Smash the gate!)"

Team One looked to the direction of the noise. There were sirens ringing from the distance, slowly getting louder and louder after each heartbeat. A roaring engine came after, drawing closer. Then, the screeching of tires…

*CRASH!*

A speeding armored car rammed the club's front gate. Metal bashed into metal, and the crowd collectively gasped at the commotion. Many of them hurried outside, abandoning the revels of the club, to see what had happened. It sounded like a traffic accident. But to their surprise, it was actually the cue for an entire fleet of police vehicles to barge in. Dozens of officers, clad in masks and tactical gear, emerged from their cars. Another dozen stepped out of the mobile battering ram, weapons drawn.

It was time.

 _"Avancen._ (Move in.)", the dispatcher ordered.

In response, Ryad and his team ran up the stairs in complete sync with the other commandos, just like in training. Within a few seconds, 40 heavily-armed men swarmed the club's pool area and outdoor lounge by the ruins, to the absolute dread of the young partygoers. With weapons drawn and their faces covered, they looked more like hardcore killers than cops. A lot of boys and girls, some of whom donning the most inappropriate clothes possible, began to cower and cry where they stood, as if they saw demons fresh from the pits of Hell itself.

The commandos ignored their bawling, and started barking orders instead.

 _"¡Policía!_ _¡Al suelo!_ (Get on the ground!) _¡Al suelo!"_

 _"¡Al suelo! ¡_ _Manos en su cabeza_ _!_ (Hands on your head!)"

The civilians had no choice but to do as they were told, wracked in terror. The armed cops proceeded to their designated rally points, shouting at every poor sap and dame they came across to lie down on their bellies and clasp their hands overhead. As per procedure, each commando did a quick, visual inspection on all potential suspects, to ensure they weren't packing any guns or drugs. All they found were sobs and shivers. It was pandemonium at La Perla Blanca, but the GEO did a great job at containing the panic.

 _"Cero-Uno: en posición_ _en_ _la terraza del sur_ (In position at the southern terrace).", Ryad radioed in.

" _Entendido_.", the dispatcher answered back. " _Proceder al patio_ (Proceed to the courtyard)."

That was where Priego intended to conduct the transaction. Team One needed to move fast; if their quarry was about to make a run for it, the other teams positioned at the southern promenade might not be able to cut the bastard off in time.

"Garza...", he called his second-in-command. "… _abrir el camino._ (You lead the way.)"

With a nod, the commando brandishing the ITA12L took point and went inside the office, tailed by two more men. The rest of Team One followed closely, just a few paces away, with each operative checking his sector. The air was rife with shouting and crying, amidst the uninterrupted techno tunes and police sirens.

They entered the first-floor office with a shotgun blast to the door knob. They found the well-furnished room to be vacant, with the shift manager nowhere in sight. Team One then dropped off three of its guys to check the security room to the right, while the rest proceeded to the adjacent Blue Bar. The place was as the name implied: walls and floors illuminated in neon azure, with all sorts of cocktails at the little tables and bar counters. The handful of people at the joint, still incredulous to the on-going commotion, gasped in surprise at the sight of the GEO. The commandos immediately ordered them to drop and put their hands on their heads, with the rest of the partygoers. With the civilians subdued, Garza led his team onwards and out of the bar, while another group peeled off and secured the nearby 'Sunrise Bar'. Soon enough, Ryad and his remaining men were bearing down on the hallway that led to the courtyard.

By the time they arrived, Elena and the rest of Team Six were already at the other end of the hall. As usual, she was leading her men from the front, donning heavy armor, a riot helmet, and a suppressed Vector SMG. She made eye contact with callsign Zero-One.

" _En posición.",_ she reported, softly _._

" _Estamos_ _listo y esperando_ … (We're ready and waiting...)", Garza also whispered to him.

A dozen cops were just a few meters from the outdoor courtyard. Satisfied with the set-up, Ryad raised his right hand for his comrades to see, and produced three fingers. Then two. Then one. What followed was the shuffling of a swift, silent advance. The adrenaline was pumping...

" _¡Vamos!_ " ("Go!")

 _…_

 _You've got to be kidding me._

Rather than find an on-going sale of contraband, the commandos stumbled across an empty couch and a table with an overturned tray of cocktails. The drinks had soiled the wooden floors and the grass beyond. There were condoms and shattered glass spread around. Priego was not there.

" _Mierda_. (Shit.)", Elena cursed. " _El sospechoso ha huido._ (The suspect has fled.)"

It was an unexpected upset. The perp scampered off when Team Six rammed the gate, no doubt. But Ryad, not missing a beat, knelt and set his rifle down on the ground. With a toggle on his visor, he activated the Eyenox footstep-scanner mounted on his head, presenting himself with a blue overlay of his surroundings. Immediately, the courtyard floors revealed a mess of prints from boots and shoes tangled with each other. They glowed in various hues, indicating how recent they were. All of them led away from the outdoor area. But one set, shining in a bright green hue, had a peculiar foot pattern. Frantic and wide-spaced. As if they were from someone running away.

" _Creo que sé a dónde fue_ … (I think I know where he went…)", he smiled.

The Eyenox Model III, inspired by technology developed by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation, allowed the GEO to hunt down high-priority targets by tracking their footprints. It was the perfect tool for the self-styled prowler. For the Jackal.

"… _Él está en el segundo piso_. (…He's on the second floor.)", he told everyone. " _Equipo_ , _sígueme_ (Team, follow me). Álvarez, _vayan por el otro lado_ (go around the other way)."

The commandos dispersed, wasting no time. Ryad led his men from the courtyard and back to the hall, his eyes focused on the set of bright footprints that his visor marked out for him. They needed to climb the staircase. If they remembered the club's floorplans right, Team One was about to make a detour to the hookah bar and the billiards lounge. The veteran officer was leading the way, with his second-in-command just a few paces behind. There were about a total of five men in this group, headed to the next floor...

*Brrrrrrrt! Brrrrrrt!*

Bullets from their right flank greeted them before they even got across the bright hallway. The gunfire came from the hookah bar. Garza was hit in the right arm, and he immediately crumpled down, wincing in pain. The commandos were caught off guard, but they didn't forget their training. They dropped to the ground in unison, as one man grabbed the wounded commando and pulled him away.

 _"¡Enemigos a las tres!_ " ("Enemies at three o'clock!"), Ryad shouted.

He quickly tossed a flashbang into the room. When it exploded, he barged in with vicious abandon, followed by the rest of his team. They stumbled across two men, each brandishing a flimsy MAC-10. Priego's bodyguards; screaming and disoriented thanks to the stun grenade. A few civilians were also on the ground, eyes closed and ears covered, screeching in complete terror. Human shields for the armed men. Without hesitation, Ryad double-tapped the nearest gunman while the other was put down with a shot to the head by a fellow commando.

*Thwoop! Thwoop! Thwoop!*

Just like that, blood was spilled tonight. A drug bust had devolved into a shootout.

" _¡La zona es segura, señor!_ (The area is clear, sir!)", shouted one of his men.

Before they pressed on, Team One gathered the civilians at the bar and escorted them downstairs. Meanwhile, the leader resumed his hunt for Priego, using nothing more than the suspect's fresh footprints to guide him. He went outside and followed the trail of signs. They seemed to be headed into the lounge next door…

" _¡Mierda!_ ", a man cried out.

Ryad looked ahead. There he was, emerging from the door. A tall, chubby fellow, in his mid-to-late forties. He was wearing a collared, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of summer shorts. Terribly inappropriate business wear, but not too out of place in a club like La Perla Blanca. His eyes were wide in surprise and fear, and his round, mustached face was positively drenched with sweat. The man had a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other.

"¡Priego! _¡Alto ahí!_ (Hold it right there!)"

As expected, the man ran away, firing his pistol at the GEO to no avail. The commandos ducked to avoid the bullets, but they restrained themselves from firing back. They knew their orders. The proper course of action was to give chase, with the team's best hunter leading the way.

Deep inside, Ryad was pissed. He wasn't in the mood for a foot pursuit, and he certainly didn't expect to be the one doing the running. His youthful vigor had left him long ago; his legs had been weakened by time. Or maybe this was just the price of staying up late, six nights out of seven almost every week. Yet the mission parameters kept hammering his brain: the suspect must be captured alive, unharmed if possible. Even though he was eager to cap the poor bastard in the leg and be done with it.

Luckily, Le Perla Blanca was a small place. The entire club was completely surrounded, and so Priego had very little chance of shaking off his pursuers. Even as the perp darted from the hall and into the entertainment lounge, the Jackal and his friends were right on his heels. They weren't chasing the target to prevent his escape. They were keeping him from doing something incredibly stupid, like jumping out of a window and breaking his legs, or shooting a cop or a bystander then get himself shot in return. Or maybe even turning his pistol on himself and pulling the trigger, like every other coward before him.

Priego led the commandos to the penthouse, where all sorts of personal effects were scattered around. He tossed the briefcase away and set his eyes on another prize.

 _"¡Ven aquí!_ (Come here!) _"_ , he yelled.

Ryad was shocked. There was a woman, cowering behind the queen-sized bed in the room. Clad in nothing more than her undies, she was probably sleeping when the GEO launched their attack. Needless to say, she was now gripped in absolute dread as the tall, desperate man grabbed her by her long black hair and pushed a pistol muzzle to her left cheek.

In just a few seconds, the chase turned into a hostage crisis.

" _¡Suelta la arma_ (Drop the gun) _!_ _¡Suelta la arma!_ ", the cops shouted at him.

Priego's response was to mumble unintelligibly, like a frightened child, demanding the commandos to lower their guns. He pressed the pistol closer to the poor girl's forehead, causing her to sob even more. To take an innocent person hostage… it was such a low blow. Pathetic, even.

 _"Ni siquiera lo intentes_ , _amigo_. (Don't even try it, buddy.)", Ryad spoke, his voice hinted at barely-held anger.

 _"¡Van atrás o_ _la mataré_ _!_ (Get back or I'll kill her!)"

The commandos weren't having any of that. They took another step closer, guns aimed at Priego. The laser sights made it painfully obvious to him that they intend to blow his head off if he did something stupid. It was more of an intimidation tactic, really, but the frightened man didn't get the message. Instead, he took a few more steps back, with gun and human shield firmly in his grips. A few inches more, he stumbled out of the penthouse and into the adjacent theater room. He stood beside a couch, flanked by tall speakers and a wall-mounted TV.

Directly behind the hostage-taker was another TV, with a jet-black screen, surrounded by a few cracks at the wall...

…

 _...What?_

Ryad quickly blinked his eyes. It wasn't what he thought it was. The black screen was _inside_ the wall. It was a one-way mirror. It only meant one thing.

*Thwoop!*

A suppressed gunshot came from the wall behind Priego, piercing his left hand, causing him to drop the gun and scream in excruciating pain. Heedless of the blood splattering her cheek, the hostage broke free and ran to the safety of one of the cops. The rest immediately converged on the wounded suspect. Ryad, following standard operating procedure, kicked the errant weapon away and brought out the handcuffs from his belt. Then, he shoved the poor man down into the ground and forcefully clasped his hands together. The blood from the mangled limb didn't bother him one bit.

And just like that, the crisis was over.

 _"Cero-Uno_ _a Comando Central.._.", he reported to his radio. "... _El sospechoso en custodia._ (...The suspect is in custody.) _Repito_ (I repeat), _el sospechoso en custodia..._ "

The self-style hunter of men could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Right after snapping the handcuffs in place, he was approached by a short woman in commando gear, who entered the theater room with two other men. The coveted leader of Team Six. She had an incredibly bright smile on her face, and the barrel of her Vector was still smoking.

"¡Ryad!", Elena called to him with a high five. " _Bien hecho, ¿eh_? (Job well done, eh?)"

" _Ti también_. _Buen tiro."_ ("You as well. Nice shot.")

The two cops smacked their hands together, laughing. The man was impressed by the policewoman's initiative and quick thinking. He didn't expect her to place a Black Mirror on the room and wait for Priego. More to the point, he didn't expect her to bring one of the damn things in the first place. Each of those bulletproof panels weighed a crap ton, and Elena would have lugged it into the room from the armored car, parked outside.

But she got results, so nothing else mattered. And why else wouldn't she and Ryad congratulate themselves? Priego, the self-styled player in Spain's illegal drug trade, was left defeated and crippled. He was led away a sobbing wreck, as the rest of Team One and Team Six converged into the penthouse. They immediately went to work searching for evidence and locking everything down. The partygoers, still in shock at what had transpired, were left in GEO custody- to be guarded until the all-clear was given. Unfortunately for them, the rave night, their one source of fun, just became a traumatic experience. Surely the news would have a field day about this later.

It was at this moment when the Jackal saw his wounded Number Two, being helped to his feet by one of the commandos.

"¡Garza! _¿Estás bien_? (Are you alright?)"

" _Hijo de puta_ … (Son of a bitch…)", the man cursed while clutching his right arm. "… _voy a estar adolorida mañana_. (...I'm gonna be sore in the morning.)"

Instinct immediately told Ryad to radio for an ambulance. He was saved the trouble when a pair of paramedics entered the room and tended to the wounded police officer.

In less than ten minutes, La Perla Blanca turned into a crime scene, cordoned off from the rest of the world. More special forces cops poured in- half of them proceeded to comb the club of illegal goods, while the other half kept the civilians in check. Priego, as much of a big guy he boasted himself to be, was only half of what the GEO was after tonight. The next piece was the contraband: tons of coke, bags of cash… whatever that could set back the traffickers and dealers in Ibiza. No such luck, unfortunately; there were only laptops, cellphones, and a couple of illegal firearms. It was what the cops feared: the coke was being shipped elsewhere. Priego's little business deal tonight only involved a wireless money transfer.

At least there was the bastard's briefcase, casually tossed aside. With luck, the case would be a treasure-trove of evidence, even if it would take the cops weeks to sift through and analyze…

*RING! RING!*

The commandos in the penthouse immediately stopped what they were doing. It was a cellphone, tucked into one of the briefcase's pockets.

" _¡Jefe!_ (Boss!)", a Team One commando called to his leader.

He went to the source of the noise and opened the case without any second guesses. Wresting the device from the pouch, he brought the screen to his face. He was stunned: it was an international call. It provoked a curious thought. Was this one of Priego's associates? A benefactor? It would be highly irregular for him to answer the phone without a wire-tap team, but the GEO might lose another lead if they ignored it. Elena looked at Ryad and shook her head. Unfortunately for her, he already had his mind set. There was only one way to be sure.

"Hola…"

"Priego, are you there? It's me."

The English words were an unexpected response. It was a man. Probably an American, judging by his accent. His voice was deep and gruff, with a slight hint of tension. Ryad, quickly thinking on his feet, started to recall everything he knew about the foreign language.

"…What? Who is this?", he played along.

"Stop fucking around! It's Leonard Fausse."

The name rang a bell. It was dropped at one of the late-night international news stories he watched over the weekend. Leonard Fausse. A known terrorist leader, believed to have masterminded the attack at a university in Boston almost a week ago. Or was it Cambridge? Regardless, it was a surprise to hear from him. Why was he calling Priego? Was he with the 'powerful group in America' that the small-time drug dealer had partnered with?

"Ah, _Señor_ Fausse!", Ryad greeted, masquerading in his natural accent, "It's nice to hear from you!"

"Cut the shit.", the caller spoke rudely. "Did you get me the money?"

"What money?"

"Jesus Christ, the money for the crack! Shipment's already headed to Valencia!"

The cop smiled in his mind. Unbeknownst to the caller, he just gave the GEO an _incredibly_ valuable piece of intel. Elena took the hint and motioned her hands to Ryad, urging him to keep talking.

"I'm still working on it, hombre. Relax."

"Relax!?", Mr. Fausse yelled. "Did you forget I am the most wanted man in America right now!?"

"Chill, my man. I'll get you your money in no time."

"Chill? What are you… What happened to your voice?"

There was a pregnant pause between the two. Not even a minute into the conversation, the cop realized that his cover was already blown. Leonard Fausse smelled something fishy, and his next words were suddenly cautious and hostile.

"…Who is this?"

"What do you mean 'who is this'?", Ryad toyed with him. "It's me, Priego."

"No. No. Fuck you. FUCK YOU!"

With that, the line went dead. An abrupt, disappointing end for a chance to hunt another criminal.

" _¿Cómo te fue?_ (How did it go?)", Elena asked him.

There was a look of disappointment in the Jackal's eyes. But his efforts weren't for naught: he now had intel that the drugs were being shipped to the Port of Valencia. That was too far away for the GEO to deal with in time, but the Guardia Civil might be able to intercept the cargo before it reached the docks. It's their turf anyway. The masked cops only needed to relay this information to Central Command.

But first things first: Leonard Fausse. While Spain didn't have a problem with this man, the Yankees certainly did. A wanted terrorist, responsible for the murder of dozens, now gone to hiding. And to the man's misfortune, he had just given away his location to the police by calling Priego. Ryad was not entirely certain of the connection between the two, although some people would care less about that. They'd rather have his head. Pity that the GEO didn't bring their signal-tracking equipment with them tonight, as that would've made things far easier.

But there was another way. The American Embassy.

" _Tengo que volver al Madrid..._ (I need to get back to Madrid...)"

...

* * *

"The Compound", Outskirts of Redmond, Oregon  
0920 hours (PST)

…

"Leave a message at the end of the beep.", said the voicemail in a coarse, male voice.

*Beep*

"*Sigh* Mr. Fausse, this is Caleb. The Bossman wants to talk, but he can't reach you. Probably stupid of me to call your landline, but I just wanna give you a heads-up…"

He closed the cellphone with a lingering breath of boredom. Another task was done.

He always hated these dull moments. Ever since Bartlett, much of his waking hours had been about mundane things: checking inventory, practicing at the range, or doing the odd errands. Some of the men, especially those who lived in the burbs, took quite a while to adjust to this ascetic lifestyle. Rise, eat, train, and toil. This morning wasn't any different. Right after breakfast, the bald man proceeded to the second-floor armory and began reviewing the list of weapons and ammo that they have stockpiled so far.

Assorted small arms bought from the black market or from Army surplus sales. Bullpup PKP machineguns obtained from arms bazaars in Eastern Europe. RPGs and Stinger missiles from the ATF's stockpiles. Boxes of C4, either shipped from the Balkans or stolen from military installations across the Midwest. His coveted M40A3, among the other rifles in the gunrack. And lastly, a few bottles of ethylene and sulfur dichloride- crude components for IEDs and the basic ingredients for Compound Z. The rest of the bottles were stored in secure cases at the basement, for The Engineer's perusal.

With everything matching the manifest, it was time to head downstairs. See what the White Masks' resident egghead was up to today.

'White Masks'. The name had been a source of mild entertainment for some of the men recently. They read the leaked Homeland Security documents not too long ago, and they were amused at the government's unimaginative choice of name for them. It was as if that the authorities were still grasping at straws, despite what happened to Bartlett. The truth was far less complex: the group _didn't have_ a name. Everyone simply referred to themselves collectively as 'The Group', 'The Outfit', and such. The lack of name was a textbook example of operational security; cloak-and-dagger stuff to confuse their foes. As for identity, the ballistic masks were the closest thing they got to a uniform, and even that one was a doozy.

Their 'face', however, was the ATP. America's True Patriots- one of the most prolific militia groups along the West Coast. In exchange for their bravery and sacrifice, they would be paid handsomely and supplied with the best black market gear: two things they would need to further their cause once this shit about Bartlett had died down. They would lose a lot of their members, certainly, but that also meant less competition among themselves to share the money with. No more peddling with drugs, guns, and other contraband from half a world away.

Alas, none of this meant anything for one man. He climbed down the basement stairs, and was greeted by the bright fluorescent lamps of the laundry room. He saw The Engineer engorged in his work. The table was turned into a makeshift chemistry lab.

"Hey, you need anything?", he asked.

The man with the tan skin and the black mullet didn't bat an eye. 'Mohandes'. Arabic for 'engineer' or 'academic'. He was mixing a few vials of a potent green liquid, careful not to spill any of it. For protection, he donned a pair of latex gloves and a medical mask. With the concoction blended to his liking, he placed the vials into a compact, electrical circuit that in turn was placed inside a business suitcase. The case was hollowed out with custom compartments, one of which contained a solid block of reddish plastic. Caleb couldn't make out the contraption, as he had limited technical experience, but even he himself could tell that the mechanism was a self-contained system.

A bomb.

"And… that takes care of that.", the chemist sighed, content at his handiwork.

It was still a bit odd to The Engineer speak English fluently. Everyone assumed that his accent would be incredibly thick, but he dropped the façade. It was a well-practiced talent; yet another surprise from his repertoire since he joined. Given his real nature, however, this was to be expected.

"What's the blast yield?"

"Enough to kill everyone in an auditorium.", was his answer.

So tenacious. Freedom Day was still weeks away, but this guy was already picking _secondary_ targets. No wonder the Bossman bailed him out from the Middle East all those months ago.

"Impressive.", Caleb gave a genuine praise. "I hope I don't need to remind you that-"

"Yes, yes. 'This thing better work'…", the man cut him off, finally raising his eyes to him. "…'or I'll put a bullet in your head'. You think I am not aware of that?"

"Good. We're on the same page."

"Heh. Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night…", he smiled sarcastically.

Caleb remained cool, even as anger began to build in his chest. He always could never stand an arrogant know-it-all. The feeling was mutual. Unfortunately for them, they had no choice but to work together. 'A vicious killer and a mad scientist'. Success on 'D-Day' hinged on them performing their functions to the utmost, otherwise the plan would fall apart. They already raised the ire of the most powerful nation on Earth, and that would complicate matters moving forward. Worse, a band of elite, international killers were looking for them as well, out for blood. Team Rainbow.

But they would be sorted out, sooner or later. The next few days would certainly be bloody and hectic, but not even the finest group of warriors on the planet could stop them. Rainbow already proved its resolve at Bartlett, when they wasted their time rescuing men and women, rather than catching the culprits. In time, they would be forced to abandon their solemn duty. After that, checkmate.

*Ring! Ring!*

The silence was broken by Caleb's cellphone. Annoyed, he brought it out of his pocket with a frown on his face. He didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Caleb! Are you there?"

The frantic voice was a dead giveaway. It was the ATF's illustrious leader.

"Mr. Fausse? What are you-"

"I DONE FUCKED UP MAN!", the caller screamed. "You gotta help me!"

…

* * *

Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia  
At the same time

…

Emily Jacobsen started her shift with a cup of coffee and her fingers on her laptop. Her desk was strewn with papers and folders, leftovers from last night's crunch time. A part of her sorely didn't want to come to work this morning.

"Fucking hell…", she mumbled to herself.

Nursing a splitting headache, the spook soldiered on. There were still plenty of files that needed sorting. This was perhaps the more sordid aspect of her work: every hour she spent in the field also meant a bagful of paperwork waiting for her back home. But she had already come to terms with her lot in life. It was far too late for her to quit now. She willingly thrust herself into a world of secrets and intrigue, following her father's footsteps.

Then she followed a… different road: from the day she accepted the offer, she knew that her actions would have major consequences from here on out. But she was willing to do anything; everything just to keep her country safe. Even if it meant getting herself killed. Even if it meant committing ignoble acts.

One of which, among a list of many, was the lie she told Ethan. As far as he's concerned, she was kicked downstairs after Operation Witch Hunt, demoted to a desk jockey from her position as a case officer for the Special Activities Division. On the contrary, the SAD kept her in the payroll. Sure, she was suspended for failing to bring the terrorist 'Mohandes' back to the US, but her superiors saw enough reason to give her a second chance. The lie was for operational security. Mohandes, the rogue chemist, was pushed further down on Langley's shit-list, now that America's True Patriots had the top spot of the country's Most Wanted.

The threat these bastards posed was much greater than everyone feared. Emily scrolled the mouse, sifting through the archived intelligence reports that she had gathered over the past few weeks. As expected, the Army Intelligence detachment at Fort Sam Houston had a file on the ATP. Theirs described a 'high correlation' between the ATP's more recent militant activities and an uptick of surplus military hardware sales across the Southern United States. Many of these old guns and equipment came from one of the Fort's armories, hence why the clerks there had a copy of the sales records.

Other bases, like Barstow, Fort Lewis, and Quantico, had similar documents as well. They covered everything from supposed transactions that the ATP conducted in secret at these bases to a list of enlisted servicemen suspected of having ties with the terrorist group. Regardless of their contents, the files only proved the negligence plaguing the chain of command for quite some time now. As if it was too much to ask of them to keep their ranks clean of dissent and treachery. Nothing was proven yet, but the mere suspicion of these acts was real enough for Homeland Security to be considered 'truth'. It would be a serious scandal if these papers saw the light of day.

Such a stressful way to start the morning. Emily leaned back on her chair and closed her eyes, letting it wander for a while. So much ineptitude and carelessness. How the hell did Ethan put up with this bullshit for years? Was it because of some misplaced sense of honor or brotherhood? The dedication was admirable, to say the least. Even though he was shafted by his superiors, time and again, he remained true to his duty. Pity that it took him more than a decade to call it quits. Maybe, if she'd met him earlier, she would have convinced him to work with her, full time. She could sense that he too was tired of the system, tired of having his talents wasted. Alas, it was not meant to be…

 _I wonder where he is now?_

One day the world will change. Until then, she had to play her part.

Emily was just about to get back to her computer when her cellphone rang. She pulled it out from her pocket and read the text. Her eyes narrowed: it was an encrypted message from the SAD case officer at the American Embassy, sent over a closed channel.

...

"/ Spanish Police relayed Madrid Station with possible lead to HVT-Priority One: Leonard Fausse / Los Angeles-area, California / Notify all SIGINT branches immediately /"

...

The most wanted man in America had finally revealed himself. Normally, any CIA agent would scramble to their boss and tell him the good news. The redhead, sadly, had lost the enthusiasm for the job a long time ago. There wasn't a tinge of surprise and excitement on her face when she read the message. There was only a series of calculations and predictions, running in her head. In a way, she was not quite amused that it took the authorities this long to get the ball rolling.

"Hmph. Now it begins…"

The first order of business would be to follow the message's instructions: call the nerds on the fourth floor, give them the information, and notify her supervisors. Then, perhaps phone the National Security Agency in Maryland and give them a piece of the pie. All in the spirit of 'mutual cooperation'. It was only natural for them to work together, given how much flak they've been getting from the public over the past few days.

But that left Emily with the intelligence reports on her computer. If she crunched the facts right, these files were no longer relevant to the bigger picture. Fausse's days were already numbered and the guy would undoubtedly spill the beans once caught. At this point, all she had on the laptop was sensitive information about the CIA, doing what they do best. Information that a lot of people would kill to get their hands on. And so, she typed a few commands on the keyboard, gritting her teeth in disappointment. Her screen replied with one dialogue box.

" _Delete all selected files_?"

She never enjoyed seeing her work go to waste. But she needed to cover her tracks.

*click*

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** I hope I got the Spanish right (lol) **.** I wanted to try something different with Jackal and Mira, i.e. portray them as GEO operators, rather than as members of Team Rainbow. I like to think that at this point in the story, they haven't been recruited yet. The Year Two operators will definitely be showcased in later chapters once they come out (maybe as part of joint missions with Rainbow?).


	5. Chapter 4 - A True Patriot

**Message from the Author:** I apologize for the lack of updates these past couple of months. I had my hands full with other matters. Fortunately, things have settled down at the moment, freeing me more time to write. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter Four – "A True Patriot"**

* * *

JFK Special Warfare Center, Fort Bragg, North Carolina  
0900 hours (EST)

Day Three

…

Third day on the job. Five days, almost a week, after Bartlett.

"All hostiles are eliminated. Mission successful.", the computer announced.

Ethan's visor immediately went to black, marking the end of the training. A deep sigh escaped his lips, as he removed his hands from the prop shotgun and let it dangle across his chest. He had been running, dodging, and shooting non-stop for almost an hour now. His body ached, reminding him that it had been a while since he exerted himself like this. To have the exercise finally over with was an infinite relief.

"Done and dusted for today, team. Switch everythin' off.", Seamus Cowden told everyone. The burly, baldheaded Scotsman was the designated leader for the exercise.

"Phew! 'Bout time.", Miles Campbell blurted out. "Take five, fellas."

Following the man's orders, Ethan took off his headgear, fumbling with the straps as he went along, and deactivated the strobes and sensors on his person. Easier said than done without removing the harnesses however, sweat and fatigue notwithstanding. The entire costume was a tangle of cables and slings, easily less comfy than any other training gear he'd worn in the past. He struggled to get the electronic bits off his suit, whereas his teammates faced no trouble.

After that, he raised the visor from his eyes and let himself back to the real world. The dull, grey walls of the large, VR chamber contrasted the decors of the CGI suburban house he was immersed into a while ago. All around, there were high-fives and pats to the back from his comrades for a job well-done. A release from the surge of adrenaline, as if they just won a game. Considering the fancy graphics, the score system, and the other spectacles, 'game' was an apt description for the computer-assisted exercise. Not exactly a perfect representation of the real deal, but nonetheless a taste of what Team Rainbow did for a living.

The loudspeakers came to life.

"That's a wrap, Seamus.", Meghan Castellano's voice echoed into the room. "You guys good down there?"

"Roger.", he tersely replied. "We're just sortin' our kit. The debrief's up and ready yet?"

"Check that. Swing by the control station first before you hit the lockers. We're gonna have one hell of a peer review."

With a whistle and a wave from the tall man's hand, the team went out of the room in an orderly fashion. Meanwhile, the recruit smiled in approval as his hands rested on top of his knees. Finally, he could take a break.

Four hours in from the moment he got out of bed, and Day Three was off to a running start. The team was winded, but spirits were high. On the other hand, Ethan felt out of his element, like he was as an FNG fresh from Delta's Q-Course all over again. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was out of practice; firing a gun, a _prop_ gun at that, after many months felt like riding a bike. He spent far too much time recuperating in the hospital to be doing serious, physical stuff so soon. But he shouldn't show a sign of weakness. He insisted on joining the taskforce despite his condition; he needed to suck it up. The least he could do was to perform at his best, even if his body still bore the wounds from his last mission. The thought caused him to clutch his right hand, still quite stiff from the anesthetics.

"Hey there, Ace.", a woman called to him. "You alright?"

Ethan looked to his left, and saw a short, freckled brunette clad in black tactical gear, wearing a sunny disposition. Emmanuelle Pichon. Beside her was Miles, wearing a bulkier outfit and a matching pair of goggles on top of his shaved head. 'Twitch' and 'Castle', as per their nicknames.

"Yeah, I'm fine *huff*… Just… still getting the hang of this video game-shit, is all."

"Really? Could've fooled me with your moves.", the ex-FBI agent praised him. "Five kills in seven rounds is pretty good for a first-timer."

"I should have done better…"

"Oh, don't sell yourself short. It also took us a while to get used to the sim...", the Frenchwoman smiled. Her accent only had a slight hint of her native tongue. "…So, shall we head up?"

They turned around and walked away, to which Ethan earnestly followed. He was eager to learn the results of today's test. The trials just kept coming since Day One: physical exercises, marksmanship drills, weapon proficiency exams… the team wasted no time getting him up to speed, treating him like a seasoned vet. A bit of an outsider, sure, but a valued member nonetheless.

All in all, everyone's response to his arrival was rather lukewarm at best. Some people, like Seamus, Emma, Miles had been nice and accommodating, but the rest would rather not deal with him. Ethan held no hard feelings; these people didn't expect to have another shooter join them so soon, and their current dynamic was rudely shaken by the coming of a new recruit. Of course they would treat him with some sort of contempt. Still, the mixed reception motivated him to maintain a positive first impression, prove to his new colleagues that he's an asset.

Thankfully, at least two people already shared the same sentiment. He certainly didn't expect him to be chumming with them so soon.

"Gotta say, I haven't seen anyone use an M870 that well.", Miles opened. "I thought you're a sniper?"

"Eh, it's nothing.", Ethan spoke humbly. "My team needed a door-kicker, so I stepped up."

"But were you in a shooting club or something?", Emma asked him. "No way you learned all of that from your boot camp."

"Just the one, back home in Connecticut... Plus the AMU …I was also in a few shooting contests in Europe with Team USA, so there's that…"

He felt a bit awkward spilling his credentials to his new acquaintances.

"*giggles* Aren't you a true patriot.", the brown-haired girl teased. "And a fast one too, for a big guy!"

"Thanks… I guess?"

Ethan weighed a good hundred and seventy-five pounds, so he didn't quite get what she was going on about. As for his performance, it was the decades' worth of combat and the countless hours spent down range that gave him an edge.

But still, the VR exercise forced him to switch roles so many times it was not even funny- rifleman, breacher, or drone operator, rather than the long-range sharpshooter he was more accustomed to. The entire training session had these weird parameters that made little sense from a practical point of view. Ten people, arbitrarily split between 'Blue' and 'Orange' teams. One group was stuck using rifles and light machineguns, while the other was mostly restricted to shotguns and SMGs. 'Logic' and 'realism' were both stretched to the limit- noisemakers were considered 'frag grenades', helmets didn't do squat against headshots, and everyone pulled all sorts of gadgets out of their asses at will. Objectives vary from hostage rescue, to asset protection, to bomb defusal. Two to three minutes per match.

Everything felt more like a contest than a serious training exercise. A 'video game', like he said.

"This is how you initiate your rookies, huh?", Ethan asked them.

"On short notice, yeah." Miles nodded. "Best way to see what you're made of is to fight the pros right off the bat. That's how we got to know each other anyway…"

"We do this at least once a week.", Emma butted in. "Sometimes we go solo, other times we fight AI targets, practice our room-clearing and team coordination…"

"You don't say."

"Plenty of glitches, though.", she complained. "Sometimes our shots don't register. Sometimes we teleport... And sometimes the servers don't even _work_ in the first place."

"It's needlessly complicated if you ask me...", Ethan commented. "…You'll get the same results with practice bullets and cardboard dummies."

"Oh, go back to the Stone Age, 'old man'. This is the 21st Century!"

He snorted at the lighthearted jab from the girl, who was seven years his junior. But perhaps 'old' wasn't so out of place after all. Looking around the familiar halls and walls of the JFK Center, he felt like a stranger in a familiar land. The last time he was here was about a year ago: him, Gabe, and the rest of Blackjack platoon on a tactical planning refresher course. Fast forward to the present, the pencils and papers had been replaced with sensors and strobes. A poignant thought came to mind. Not once did Ethan dream of returning to this place under new management.

He proceeded to the hallway leading to the control room. The small talk continued.

"So how are you fitting in?", Emma asked. "Everyone's treating you well, I hope?"

"I'm the new kid at school, so I know my place. The team's alright... except for a few guys. And that stuck-up German lady…"

Ethan had a 'nice' little chat with that cop from Leipzig this morning, to get her help in uploading his biometrics into the VR system. She had a pretty face and piercing pair of eyes, but she was straitlaced to the bone. Humorless, short-tempered, and very professional.

"Hah! Don't worry about Monika. Miss Ice Queen had a stressful weekend tinkering with that bomb we have at the-"

"Wait, a _bomb_?", Ethan turned to her with a worried face. "What bomb?"

"From Bartlett. We… brought back one of the explosive devices used in the attack... Six wanted us to study it, see what makes it tick…"

"I assume it's disarmed…"

" _Oui_. It's not as hard as cleaning the blood off it…", she replied sarcastically.

Bartlett. The memories were still very fresh, even though it happened last week. Chemical weapons, dozens dead in less than an hour... it left the entire country rattled to its core. Rainbow had put down the murderers responsible, but the rest of the psychos, the so-called 'White Masks', have gone into hiding. The hunt was as fervent as ever; Ethan was told that a large contingent of JSOC troops were flown stateside from Europe and the Middle East just to aid in the search.

No reason to bring them up in this conversation, however. Emma's voice grew more somber when she spoke about the attack. Before he could change the topic, Ethan and his two teammates have finally arrived at the control station upstairs. The rest of Rainbow was already gathered there. The door was left slightly ajar, giving enough room for them to see the cheery commotion inside.

And there they were: a handful of the world's best cops and soldiers gathered under one roof. Different cliques and pairs. Ethan tried his best to match each face with the names he'd gathered so far. He saw Jordan Trace, former Marine turned FBI Agent, and a close friend of Miles'. Gilles Touré, the GIGN veteran and Emma's former mentor. Yumiko Imagawa, police inspector and SAT trainer. Shuhrat Kessikbayev, demolitions expert from Uzbekistan. Seamus, Afghanistan-vet and SAS squad leader, gifted with two hundred plus pounds of pure strength and aggression. There were a few other names that he couldn't recall on the spot, but everyone was present. In all, more than a dozen men and women. Then there's Meghan, Fleet Intelligence officer and SEAL, who was standing in front of them beside a large monitor, donning a black shirt and a pair of blue denims.

"Alright, everyone's here.", she clapped her hands. "Let's go over the numbers."

"Jesus, we already know who's the MVP, Valk…", Jordan complained. "…No need to rub it to our faces."

The Japanese woman with the hoodie let out a laugh.

"I told you, if you just followed my lead-"

"Yeah yeah, whatever…"

"*sigh* Do we really have to see the replay?", Emma grumbled. "Last time I checked, my avatar looked like a bondage-freak…"

"Hey, this ain't about your gimp mask, honey. It's about your score.", Meghan smiled as she typed into the keyboard.

Everyone turned to the screen as it woke up, showcasing a chart of each operator's tally of kills, deaths, and assists, per the computer's calculations. Almost immediately, thoughts were shared and accolades were handed, with Meghan serving as an impromptu arbiter. Some words rooted for Yumiko, who hogged most of the glory. Some jabs were thrown at the Frenchwoman's ridiculous mask and exaggerated lips, much to her obvious dismay.

"I swear… I'll find the son of a bitch who made my face like that and clobber him."

Ethan smiled in his head as well. Perhaps this also explained the silly hats and masks some of the team were 'wearing'?

This mix of kinship and criticism made him feel at home. For damn sure, Team Rainbow was an odd bunch. Different faces, different countries, but they shared a single, unspoken language. Counter-terror professionals from all over the world. Supposed rivals shook hands with each other, some discussed tactics and pointers, while the rest cracked jokes at their expense. And yet, despite the air of positivity, these brave men and women acted more like office coworkers. And they had the stones to take on a ruthless band of murderers at the drop of a hat, five days ago. Nobody would suspect that this eclectic group had been knee-deep in hell recently, fighting terrorists at a campus in Cambridge. It felt humbling to be accepted into this band.

There were other quirks that caught the former Delta operator's eye as well. For starters: the women. The team stationed here in Bragg had Emmanuelle, Meghan, Monika, Yumiko, and Tina. Five times more estrogen compared to any other outfit that Ethan had served with. Not that this was a bad thing, though- the exercises have shown that these ladies were just as fast, fierce, and fearless as any other male warfighter. That was only expected of them; otherwise, they wouldn't have been inducted into their nations' foremost elite units in the first place. But if 'badass babes' would suddenly become a rare sight in the world, that's because Team Rainbow already held a monopoly in the market.

Then there's the equipment: the team wasn't just an elite counter-terrorist taskforce, it was also a melting pot of some of the most advanced military tech from across the globe. Portable recon drones, exothermic breaching devices, mini-grenade launchers, self-propelled nonlethal weapons. They even had the latest version of the RED 'Spectre', one of the Army EOD's latest toys from Germany. Even the most rustic-minded pro would develop some degree of tech-savviness in their system, after spending time with such an arsenal. But if Emma and Miles's stories about the team's co-workers in England were true, then this little toy collection was just the tip of the iceberg. Ethan couldn't help but admit to be excited about the thought.

 _I wish I can get used to this..._

He took everything in, pleased by the circumstances that led him to this unique opportunity. Be a part of something greater again. Taking that black lady's job offer suddenly felt like the right thing to do after all. Yet at the back of his head, it dawned on him that this good fortune came at a high cost. Operation Witch Hunt was a failure. A terrorist was freed. Nine of his friends were killed, and a part of him would forever wish he went down with them. Their passing still resonated in his heart, tugging it painfully. All these months and the old wounds still hurt, in every sense of the word.

His eyes remained fixated on the screen, consciously oblivious to the chattering around him, as his hand searched his trousers' front pockets. When he pulled it out, he clutched a pair of dog tags, worn and burnt. It belonged to Gabe, the one pair of four-millimeter stainless steel that Ethan was fortunate enough to keep. He didn't have the same luck with the others, but he didn't need their tags to remember them all by name. Gabriel DeWynne. Omar Guerrero. Travis Upton. Jeremy Wong. Jason Stelmack. Desmond Leggett. Robert Kemple. Michael Rountree. Beau Halloran. He clenched the pieces in his palm, tighter. It was a reflex- a coping mechanism.

Emma saw it. She was intrigued and concerned all the same, as she glanced across her shoulder.

"Okay, judging by the metrics…", Meghan spoke out, motioning to the screen. "…We have good results across the board, just a few minor blips in reaction times… But I want to know everyone's thoughts…"

Ethan was completely zoned out at this point. He didn't realize that the blonde woman had her green gaze set on him.

"…Starting with the new guy."

"Huh?", he froze in place.

More than a dozen pair of eyes suddenly turned to him, all of them sizing him up, all of them keen to hear what he had to say. For a moment, he felt goose bumps in his skin. as he was suddenly put on the spot. 'The new kid at school'.

"Yeah, you heard right D-Boy.", Meghan poked at his Army roots. "Mind telling us your… 'tactical assessment' of our little run?"

He looked around, subtly clearing the lump on his throat.

…

* * *

Department of Defense-Office for Special Projects, Arlington, Virginia  
The Pentagon

…

"…Director Treadway.", Six spoke in a respectful tone. "I'm afraid I have to decline on behalf of my taskforce."

The bespectacled man on the monitor snorted in disbelief.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Rainbow is a _response_ unit… not a private security agency as you like to believe."

The lady remained firm. Director Robert Treadway, Head of Operations Coordination at the Department of Homeland Security, shook his head, obviously disappointed.

"Deputy Director…", he leaned forward and shifted in his seat. "…you and your people may be under the UN's purview, but you are funded by American taxpayers, mandated to protect American interests. By proxy, you are working _for_ the American government, and therefore-"

"Correction, Director: our mandate merely _includes_ protecting American interests. Our Area of Operations is the entire _world_."

She had been repeating the same words to other detractors, time and again. Today, however, her explanation was only met with even more stubbornness from the codger. From an annoying old fool.

"The alphabet agencies are convinced the attack on the Summit will. Come.", he persisted. "Three weeks from now. Three weeks!"

"Yes, we know that."

"Then why THE FUCK is Rainbow standing down!? You telling me one of our best assets can't come to where we need them the most!?"

"Sir, please understand… You want us to deploy to Manhattan _in full force_.", Six repeated her case, as calmly as she could. "Like I said, our manpower is limited; we cannot afford to be all in one place. Not while there are threats of attacks across Europe and elsewhere..."

Treadway leaned back on his chair. The strained looked in his eyes made it clear that he had high hopes for this meeting with Rainbow Six. Understandably, he didn't want to leave emptyhanded. But the dark-skinned lady remained firm; she knew better than to overstretch her taskforce's already-limited means. God help her, because a lot of things were seemingly conspiring to make her waking hours more miserable. This meeting with possibly the most unlikable man in Homeland Security was a dead giveaway.

"…These 'White Masks' are different.", Six continued. "They aren't just well-funded and well-motivated; they have a level of sophistication unlike we have seen before. You saw it five days ago: before they gassed those kids in Bartlett, they obtained the University's floorplans, Mass State PD's timetables, signal frequencies to fool electronic scanners…"

"*sigh* Not this shit again-"

"…They had canisters of Compound Z; something that only the British SAS has access to! …We're talking about special forces-level of planning and execution! Who's to say they don't have any more attacks down the pipeline? We need Rainbow to be ready to respond, wherever and whenever they are!"

"Don't lecture me about the Senate inquest.", Treadway chided. "Homeland Security is aware of the leaks."

A few seconds of dead air prevailed as both parties saw only disappointment in their conversation. Another meeting, another impasse.

But no one was more frustrated than the Rainbow Program's Deputy Director. It boggled her mind that Capitol Hill had once again refused to see the bigger picture. The White Masks, as the DHS named them, weren't just a homegrown group of psychopaths with plenty of guns and money. They didn't kill those kids in Bartlett as a massive 'fuck you' to the government. They did it because they had an _agenda_. The chemical weapons from the Middle East. The attempted bombing in Hamburg. The siege in Abidjan. The diversion they pulled off in London. They were all connected. But how? Why? Six had to use her own contacts in the CIA and MI5 to put the pieces together. Yet so far, her efforts have produced nothing. And when she confided the Joint Chiefs about her hunch, they brushed it off nonchalantly, as if the threat to America demanded greater attention than the coming storm.

No matter. She had a more pressing problem to deal with. Namely, the old man on the computer screen, once again bugging her to deploy her taskforce on another gathering of bigwigs. A 'sufficient countermeasure', he said, against what he believed to be an imminent terrorist attack. 'Overkill' is what the woman would say. It was a good thing that Rainbow didn't answer directly to Treadway and the DHS, otherwise they would use this elite counter-terrorism unit to solve all of America's security problems. But times might be changing for the worst on that regard.

"…Do you know that the Edda is gaining more support from Congress?", Treadway suddenly blurted out.

Six held back a sigh of shock. 'Edda'. The EDDA or "Enhanced Domestic Defense Act". The borderline-Orwellian piece of legislation created in response to the attacks on America over the past decade. The Edda was soundly rejected last year because of its extreme measures, but it was brought back to life thanks to the attack on Bartlett University.

"…All it takes is one more- _just one more_ -incident, and shit will hit the fan.", Treadway explained.

Mass surveillance, forced detentions, warrantless arrests, the end of privacy. Its passage would mean a massive overhaul of the country's homeland security infrastructure. Resources would be reallocated, positions would be shuffled. But more importantly, Rainbow would be dissolved and its assets seconded to the Department of Defense. The team would be returned to their respective units, burning any bridges they've built with each other. It would also mean the forced resignation of Rainbow Six as Deputy Director of the Program. This wouldn't be in line with her retirement plans, but her feelings on the matter were moot anyway.

She fell silent nonetheless. What the hell was he getting at?

"Thank you for your concern Director…", she mustered the courage to speak. "…But what the politicians do with their votes is on them. Not me."

"You can prove to them that the Edda is not necessary. As long as Rainbow is around."

"That's a discussion for another time."

"A discussion YOU WILL NEVER HAVE if the Summit ends in flames!", he slammed his desk.

The man had always been a pompous ass, but today he was even more abrasive than usual. Understandably so, given the enormous weight on his shoulders. The attack on Bartlett five days ago had caused the DHS to scramble, dreadfully concerned about the upcoming the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in New York. On Freedom Day, no less. Delegates from the most powerful nations on Earth gathered into one building made for an exceptionally juicy target. Thus, Treadway issued a call to arms: grease some palms and gather whatever resource he still could to bolster all security measures and ensure the delegates' safety. Even though literally any and all available resource in the country was already stretched too thin, Rainbow included.

"You went through great lengths to revive the Rainbow Program, Deputy Director... Your predecessor left big shoes to fill, even for a woman like you. But we agreed to it anyway..."

"And I appreciate what you-"

"…Yet you FAILED to save those kids five days ago!", he interrupted her again. "…You FAILED to stop another attack on our soil: the one reason why we asked your people to come from England in the first place! …Do you know how much we want to _regret_ that decision?"

Those words felt too close to home.

"For your sake, madam, I strongly suggest that you reconsider.", Treadway continued to lecture her. "Cowboy the fuck up, step out of your mandate, and get your boys on point just for one. Fucking. Day."

Six felt her patience slowly wearing thin. How dare he remind her of Rainbow's one fluke? This man's tone felt like blackmail, the more he went on. But she knew he was just trying to goad her to agree with him. It was high time to drop all pleasantries.

"*sigh* What the hell do you want from me, Bob?"

The man smiled at her blunt use of his name.

"Stop kissing the UN's ass and remember where you came from. The President has lost a lot of friends already; we need every soldier we can get."

"I will do whatever it takes to protect my country.", Six replied, firm at her resolve. "But I will not sacrifice _my_ friends for it either…"

She meant every word. She wanted to scoff at him as well, protocol and courtesy be damned. Though that could be what he was counting on. Alas, she had no choice but to concede. It was the only diplomatic option she had left.

"*sigh* Fine …I'll consult this with my teams on the ground... Until then, you have to wait until next week."

"Hmph. I'll appreciate it if it comes sooner...", Treadway replied with a frown, his 'normal disposition'. "…You have to forgive me if I doubt you'll play ball on our next meeting."

 _Asshole_.

"…A good day to you, Director."

With that, Six turned off the screen. She wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, lean back and close her eyes, to savor the few precious seconds of peace. Heaven knows that she barely had any downtime since last week. But the man's words kept nagging at her. They left her furious. She wanted to grab the papers on her desk and throw them at the wall. She didn't care about the folders and plaques.

Yet, she reminded herself of her bywords. Calm. Focus. Control. She repeated in her head that it was Treadway's job to question her competence, like the rest of those above her pay grade. That didn't mean that they were _right_ , nor they had just cause to do so. Their freedom to spit poisonous words was simply one of the consequences of living in a free country, the very thing that all of them, Six included, were trying to protect in the first place. And besides, the pencil pushers and the suits weren't in her shoes when the attack on Bartlett went down. Reverse the roles, and they might have done a worse job about the mess. They didn't know what she did. They didn't have the strength that she had.

It was time for pleasant thoughts. Six turned to her desk and glanced at the lone picture frame, standing proud. A family portrait: herself, her husband, her teenaged son. The dour, prudish lady smiled at the image, reminiscing. Time flew by and she didn't even notice that her baby boy was now a freshman at Virginia State. Just a few more years and he'd be his own man, with a promising career, with a dream in his heart, and maybe even a family. The future would be in his hands. He just needed to people who would defend it for him. Die for it even, if necessary. And there were millions of others like him, who deserve to have their futures shielded from the world's madmen and monsters.

This was why the massacre at Bartlett had left so deep a mark on the woman's heart. The callous murder of young men and women was one thing, but the lingering fact that her son _could have been_ one of the victims was another. An entirely different level of grief. She wasn't just filled with anguish on that fateful day. She was rife with rage. Fury. Tommy could've been a student in Bartlett, if only he didn't turn down the scholarship grant. It was unnerving to think that last year's signature could have sealed his fate as today's casualty.

There would be no leniency, no sanctuary for the White Masks. If Rainbow Six had it her way, each and every one of these motherfuckers would die, and she would relish every moment of their suffering.

...

*Beep! Beep!*

"What is it?", Six pressed her answering machine.

"Ma'am?", a young woman replied. It was her secretary. "I just received a data packet from Langley. Clearance-Level Prospero."

The older lady immediately knew what it meant. With haste, she pushed the flashing button on her phone and picked up the receiver. Her line with her staff was now doubly-secured from all prying ears, within or outside of the building.

"Go on."

"Yes ma'am. Spanish CNP has intercepted an international call during one of their drug raids in Ibiza this morning..."

"And?"

"…CIA's Madrid Station traced it to California. We found him, ma'am… Leonard Fausse."

At that moment, chills went down the woman's spine. Did she hear her right? One of the White Masks had revealed himself? How was this possible?

"Send me the data."

"Yes ma'am."

Six turned to her other computer screen. A few seconds went by, and her inbox suddenly notified her of a new file, one that contained specific details of the story fed to her over the line.

Everything checked out. Leonard Fausse. 'Priority Target One'. The founder of America's True Patriots, the right-wing militia that pledged itself to the White Masks, had given away his location. By accident no less; he was supposed to deliver a huge shipment of drugs to a contact of his in Spain earlier today. Cops from the Cuerpo Nacional de Policía were tipped off and they were able to seize the goods in Valencia, but not before Fausse made the stupid mistake of phoning his contact using an unsecure line. Thanks to that, Langley was able to triangulate his location.

 _Los Angeles?_

He was probably holed up in some safe house or an apartment somewhere down there. Either way, he just poked his head out of his hidey hole, and the good guys needed to act fast. Right then, a series of calculations went through the Deputy Director's brain. The information she was given was less than an hour old. No doubt that the CIA had already issued a general alert to all law enforcement and security agencies about the man. There would be cops about to swarm his location. There would be a reprisal from the ATP or the White Masks, so that meant a lot of high-powered firearms. News crews would be dispatched to catch the whole thing, against all solid logic and regard for their own safety.

There was still time for Team Rainbow to respond.

"…What's the twenty on our team in Bragg?", Six asked her secretary.

"On stand-by.", the young woman replied. "They just finished their morning drills."

The moment of truth. Six could let the police do their thing and arrest the bastard, then she would issue a high-level federal directive to detain him for questioning by Homeland Security. Or, she could send her own troops in, let them handle an undoubtedly dangerous situation and make up for Rainbow's blunder at Bartlett. There were risks and rewards on both camps. But more than that, this was another opportunity to strike back at the murderous bastards who started all this. She needed to pick the most prudent choice, consequences be damned.

…

"Tell Seamus to suit up and prep a team. I have a job for them."

…

* * *

Downtown Los Angeles, California  
Fifteen feet underground

…

*tink* *tink*

The sewers of LA. Most probably 'the least glamorous place in all of Hollywoodland'. Even the smallest section in the system was a dark, damp, and humid place. Not to mention the smell, as eight men clad in white overalls and hoodies could immediately attest. Nearly half of them had been down here for a month, working the pickaxes and hammers from nine to five. Their only sources of light were a few lamps and glow sticks. Talk about a dirty job...

*tink* *tink*

If he had his way, Leonard Francis Fausse wouldn't be here, squatting in literally shitty water, rushing the work on the tunnel, which was originally due next week. The small, underground passage was a side-project: an emergency plan he prepared months ago in the event that his organization would be taken down a notch and had its resources seized. And what better way to recoup losses than to steal from one of the CIA's treasured 'black vaults' in downtown Los Angeles? Safe deposit boxes, gold bars, and stacks of Euros, purposely sealed away as emergency funds, now ripe for the taking. This treasure throve was one of the many secrets he learned when their allies attacked the Port of Hamburg a few months ago. The place had kept a manifest of CIA deliveries that passed by Germany, and it was a major find for the group.

But now it seemed that the tables were turned. This morning, a single phone-call changed his fortunes for the worst. He was just getting a sitrep for one of his little business ventures across the Atlantic. Re-directing a few crumbs from Mexico's cocaine pipeline to Europe had always led to easy money; today should have been no different. But not long after the first conversation with Priego, Fausse found himself scrambling to LA and scraping together a crew on short notice. Everything was shaken up, and he had to go to plan B ahead of schedule. And all because one servile little runt was stupid enough to get himself caught by the cops.

"Goddamn Spaniards…", Fausse muttered.

"Hm?", one of his men turned around. He was holding a pick.

"Nothing. Just keep digging."

*tink* *tink*

The heist needed to happen _now._

For the first time in God knows how long, the illustrious leader felt the walls bearing down on him. He was scared; the blunder in Ibiza was _spectacularly_ stupid. In less than an hour, he lost both a large chunk of his contacts and his group's best moneymaker across the Atlantic. Not only that, his little band was now left a hundred million dollars short- more than enough money for them to scatter to the winds after what their little siege at Bartlett. And when he told Caleb about the problem, he was incredibly cold and acerbic. He seemed reluctant when he agreed to drive from Oregon and 'help' him out. That wasn't a good sign. The punk might have thought that the Fausse's group had compromised the whole operation somehow.

This shouldn't happen. The self-styled leader needed to save face. The Bossman wouldn't be pleased if he learned about his failure.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_

It could have been so simple! After Bartlett, Fausse and his men would lay low, watch from afar as the government tightened security and closed its doors. After years of wallowing in incompetence and corruption, the White House would finally start cracking down harder on all the undesirables that had infested the American Dream. His beloved country would be stronger, free from the yoke of other nations. Even then, the bloodshed and sacrifice would not end. But from the ashes, America would stand alone as the victor. The one shining beacon in a world slowly teetering towards madness.

*tink* *tink*

Yet, all because of one mistake, he might have just ruined everything. His dream of building a country that was actually worth dying for, dashed because of one smartass cop who played him like a fiddle.

There was no other choice for Fausse, except to gamble everything he had left into one last chance at redemption. This wouldn't be the first time. He had been a failure and a laughing stock to his peers ever since he was kicked from the service. A disgraced soldier, a failed revolutionary, and bumbling troublemaker. It was a damn miracle he even managed to amass a huge following; disillusioned patriots, but as devoted as he was. He tried his best to hide his anxieties from them. Years of shootings and arsons, ultimately futile. But just as he was about to hit a brick wall, he formed a pact with Caleb's benefactor: a crummy suit who had a far grander vision for the United States.

Thanks to the Bossman, his little movement was suddenly feared and hated. When they first donned the white mask of defiance, they felt that they had just joined an even greater purpose. An opportunity to create an America of their _own_ terms.

From this point on, Fausse would do everything to prove his worth. Even if he was scared shitless.

*TINK*

The pickaxe had finally touched the metal slab.

"Boss!", one of the masked men called. "We're in!"

"Keep your voice down, Tony!", another man chastised.

And there it was, hidden behind the clay and the earth. Beyond the meter-thick steel exterior lay the server room. Beyond that was the security station and command center for the CCTVs. And just a few walls away from that room, was the prize.

"Clock's ticking.", Fausse reminded his crew. "Get the charges ready!"

Two men nodded and hurried back to get the explosives at the other end of the tunnel. The rest began cocking their assault rifles and machineguns, before donning the ballistic masks that have since become their 'uniform'. There was a faint air of tension and excitement; they were finally going to rob one of the largest banks in Downtown Los Angeles: Prestige National.

"Boss? Are you sure about this?"

"Of course I am.", he lied.

"No, I meant that suit..."

The henchman was referring to the bulky, bleached hazmat gear that Fausse was wearing. It had an oxygen tank and bandoliers of ammo. Wrapped around the Kevlar vest and trauma plates were packs of C4, waiting to be armed with the push of a button. The Bomber's suit was as menacing as it was deadly, designed to inspire fear and panic to anyone who would dare stop them.

"You worry about your fucking job, boy."

"Maybe we should wait for Adam and Caleb?"

"No! We can't sit around!", Fausse chided. "Besides, Adam is probably in his lab or in his yacht, sipping chiantis while we do all the grunt work."

The henchman nodded and went back to checking his weapon, content with the thought that his illustrious leader was unafraid to die for the cause. Nothing could be further from the truth, however. Fausse _desperately_ wanted Caleb to come to lend a hand. Otherwise, there would be no chance in hell for he and his boys to come back from this job alive. There was no way that the baldhead would leave his brother behind. There was no way that the Bossman would just leave the ATP to rot and die.

"Explosives set!"

Eight men looked at the charges, neatly arranged at the wall. They put their game faces on.

"Alright, stand back!", the leader ordered them with fake bravado.

They went to the other side of the tunnel, huddled behind a sturdy section of the sewer walls. The plan was to storm the breach after the explosives went off, and cut down any opposition. It would be a mad dash to reach Prestige National's vault.

"Bryce? We're ready to blow the wall. You boys set?"

"At the parking lot by the Bank's east side, boss. Waitin' on ya."

"Good. Wait for the signal."

Fausse was satisfied at what he heard. The heist would be a two-pronged assault, catching everyone off-guard. He took a deep breath as he readied his SG552 rifle and the detonator. He made one last look at his men. There would be no turning back after this.

"Y'all ready?"

They didn't say anything. He could see it in their eyes: unquestioning loyalty and a willingness to kill for their country. America's True Patriots indeed.

"...Alright.", he muttered. "This is for our boys in Cambridge."

They would not have died in vain.

*beep!*

...

...

*BOOOOOOM!*

The earth shook and rumbled, as a bagful of exothermic explosives rendered a section of the metal wall into nothingness. Amidst the smoke and dust, Fausse and his men rushed the gap with their weapons drawn, running single file through the tunnel. They stumbled across the server room, riddled with shrapnel and bits of rocks. There was a man, presumably the IT guy, on the floor and wallowing in pain as the explosion swept him from his feet. He was alive and unarmed, so the masked gunmen gave him a swift rifle butt to the face. The fire sprinklers activated, as per protocol, and alarms blared off throughout the bank. Gunshots were heard from the floor above, presumably from the other crew. There was panic and chaos, just as planned.

"Bring out the bags boys! It's fucking payday!", Fausse yelled.

Their next target was the vault. Time was of the essence.

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** Wooh! This was a tough one! I didn't expect Ubisoft to announce Operation Health and delay the Hong Kong operators. I was forced to rethink some parts of my fanfic's storyboard because of this sudden change. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! The next one's well underway and it should be released before the end of June. Also, if you're wondering about the names of Ethan's friends, most of them were taken from the first Ghost Recon game.


	6. Chapter 5 - Reckoning

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Five – "Reckoning"**

* * *

Downtown Los Angeles, California  
Approaching Prestige National Bank

1140 hours (PST)

...

 _"Dispatch. Dispatch. This is Alpha-One-One-Niner… What's the twenty on those EMTs?"_

 _"One-One-Niner, be advised: ambulances southbound from Pasadena and Burbank are closing in on your position. Special response unit is one minute out."_

 _"Dispatch, please send everyone down here! Eleven-Nine-Nine emergency! We have sixteen officers down… First assault ineffective! Say again: first assault attempt was not effective! Two-Eleven still in progress at Prestige National!_

 _"Ten-Four. Elevated Tac-Alert has been raised; re-routing all available units to the Downtown-area…"_

 _…_

The police radio told Ethan what he was about to head into. There was no time to cope with the jetlag.

Everyone in the armored van felt it as well. There was a deafening silence inside, save for the chatter in the airwaves and the creaking of ammo boxes stowed overhead. Sirens continued to blare as the van raced to the scene; the team had only landed at Los Angeles International about twenty minutes ago. Meghan, their resident intelligence and comms expert, wasted no time coordinating with the responders from beside the driver's seat. In the passenger compartment, Seamus was reviewing operational notes on his little clipboard. Miles and Jordan were beside him, inspecting their sidearms. To Ethan's right, Emma was testing the wheels of her little robot using her wrist-mounted datapad. The rest of the team, the so-called 'special response unit' as far as the cops were concerned, was composed of Marius Streicher, Alex Senaviev, Yumiko Imagawa, and Masaru Enatsu.

The job was straightforward: capture Leonard Fausse, America's Most Wanted and a member of the White Masks, who was just discovered to be hiding out in Los Angeles. Rainbow Six was gracious enough to charter a G-650 business jet and an LAPD van for the team, which was a bit odd. That kind of pull with the White House only meant that today's mission was a critical one. A couple of hours into the flight, however, the situation abruptly changed: an armed bank robbery had broken out in Downtown LA, with about a dozen heavily-armed, masked gunmen. Complete pandemonium, hostages were taken, no word on casualties. Everything felt too convenient to be a coincidence; the team had a lingering suspicion that Fausse was involved in the heist.

*tires screeching*

With luck, the next few minutes would confirm it. Not long after their journey started in LAX, the van had finally ground to a halt. Instinct told Ethan to peer into the viewing ports of the vehicle, to which he saw a collection of cops and police cars scattered about. The entire site was blocked off from crowds of onlookers, as helicopters buzzed from above. There were a few news crews as well.

"We're here.", Meghan announced, knocking on the van's metal shell to rouse any sleepers.

Seamus turned to his team. "Oi, masks down, eyes up."

It was time for everyone to put on their game faces. All of them donned an assortment of balaclavas, black fatigues, tactical vests, and helmets, in contrast to the colorful costumes they 'wore' in the VR simulation earlier today. Anyone who did not know the team by heart would find it difficult to discern who's who. Marius, who was closest to the exit, opened the door with a resounding clank of the lever. The passenger compartment was immediately bathed in a bright, midday light, as the Operators gathered their things and stepped outside of the van, one by one.

 _Oh boy…_

Ethan held his breath as he looked around, standing in the middle of the street, and the tinted goggles shielding his eyes from the sun. It was a surreal scene, straight out of a cinema. Dozens of cops have completely surrounded the Bank, which was riddled with bullet holes. Curiously, most of the Bank's security shutters were deployed, denying entry and clear lines of sight through the windows. It was probably an automated defense mechanism, or an attempt by the robbers to buy time for themselves. Officers of all stripes crouched behind their vehicles, guns raised and pointed at the building's doors and windows. Empty brass casings and pieces of shattered glass littered the asphalt, as the unmistakable tang of fresh cordite filled the air. Sirens were everywhere.

A closer look here and there would reveal patches of blood, indicating where casualties fell. His hunch was proven correct by the triage station setup at the sidewalk; the medical crews were gathered around the wounded and the dead.

"A fuckin' mess, this is.", Seamus muttered. "Feels like Bartlett, but with less smoke…"

"And less grass.", Meghan added, shaking her head. "It's all gonna be tight corridors and small rooms once we kick this off…"

Ethan nodded in silence, taking their words for it. He felt the buildup of adrenaline in his blood, knowing that he was about to have a date with danger yet again. Today would be his first mission since the Middle East. Brand-new team, but same old rules. A fresh start. While part of him was ecstatic to be back in the fight, the other was more down-to-earth, wallowing in cautious fear. He reminded himself that countless lives would be on the line in a few hours; among them were his and his teammates'. The thought that his last foray in the field had ended in failure also gnawed at him, much as he wanted to ignore it.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a few police officers approach them from afar.

"Guys…?", he called to his buddies.

There were three individuals headed their way, heavily-armed, grim and weary- as if they've been fighting a serious skirmish all morning. One of them was an older gentleman wearing plainclothes, with a badge dangling from his collar. Seeing that he was flanked by a couple of geared-up officers with helmets, this guy was presumably the field commander. Meghan and Seamus immediately took the hint, and their eyes were locked onto the approaching 'welcome party'.

"You lot stay here…", the Scotsman ordered. "…Meg?"

"Right behind ya."

The two of them proceeded to meet and shake hands with the cops. They started talking. They were too far away for Ethan and the others to listen in, but one could easily assume their conversation. 'What happened?', 'How many hostiles inside?', 'How many hostages?'. Miles, who was ex-LAPD himself, peeled away from the group to talk to his former co-workers.

Team Rainbow, meanwhile, was stuck with mindless musings and chatters, anything to keep themselves calm while they awaited their orders. They ignored the curious stares from the police, who seem to be baffled by the commandos' presence, donning all matter of kit. Likewise, the team did not appear comfortable with the prospect of working with so many of Los Angeles's Finest. Too much room for friction in the field, to say nothing about the skill gap between them. These were just some of the many wake-up calls for today- the mission was _not_ a VR sim. No team switches, no 'trades' of kills, no spawning for the next round. The prospect of going home in an ambulance or in a body bag was a real possibility.

"Well… this is interesting, don't you think?", Alex commented, seemingly happy.

"How so?", Emma turned to him, half-smiling. Her black mask had a mouth opening.

"Bank robbery, police cars, gunfight in the streets of Los Angeles? It is like movie!"

Alexsandr Senaviev. Tachanka. 'Alex' to the team, 'Sasha' to his fellow Spetsnaz operatives. An odd fellow to have as a battle-buddy, what with his enthusiasm in combat and affection for old school hardware. The non-standard Maska helmet adorning his head was also an extension of his character, lending him a unique charm. Some people, like Ethan, found it difficult to believe that this goofball was also a living relic of the Soviet War in Afghanistan. But beneath the jovial man's brawn lay decades' worth of military experience, so who was he to judge?

"I've seen that too…", he told him. "…The bad guys got away."

"Hah! Then let us write different ending for this one, _tovarishch_! I'm thinking girls and-"

" _Sheise_ … now ist not the time to talk about your veird fetishes…", Marius complained.

Marius 'Jäger' Streicher. GSG 9 aviator and engineer. In contrast to the Russkie, this German was anything but a ray of sunshine. Like a pompous dick who thought he was better than anyone else in the room. But he was _really_ good at his job, and he knew it. He'd never turn down a chance to remind people of his 'Magpies' and how they served the Bundespolizei far better than any other cop's time on the beat. Unlikable and cocky, but Emma claimed that he was a good guy at heart.

Despite the clashing personalities, it was nice to know that the team had plenty of gusto. Unfortunately, the levity was short-lived. A few minutes after they started, Seamus and Meghan finished their talk with the cops and made their way back. The mood suddenly became much more grim. Their eyes were razor-sharp with focus. The leader seemed to have plenty of things to say to them, judging by the handful of rolled up papers that he had on his right arm. Miles was trailing behind.

"What do you have for us, sir?", Emma spoke out.

"Gather 'round, everyone.", he motioned his fingers.

They followed Seamus to the armored vehicle, whereupon he laid down the papers on top of a large utility trunk. He began his brief.

"Right then. Brass tacks… The alarm was tripped at around 0950 this mornin', shots were fired, no demands were made… LAPD cordoned the entire site, and they launched an incursion about forty minutes ago… The poor bastards were ambushed when they rappelled from the roof…"

A few pairs of eyes focused on the triage station nearby. Those poor souls tended to by the paramedics wore the blue overalls of LAPD SWAT. There were a handful of body bags as well, carefully hidden from the sights of prying news cameras from afar.

"…Negotiations are out of the question after that stunt. So far, the bobbies (cops) are treatin' this as a robbery, not a terrorist attack..."

"Let me guess…", Jordan commented. "…It's in _their_ best interests that we keep it that way?"

"Aye…"

Seamus then rolled out a large sheet of bluish paper for his teammates to see. It was a floorplan. The words 'Prestige National Bank' caught everyone's eye.

"…The power has been cut, so that sorts out the security cameras at least… Initial drone recon from LAPD counted at least sixteen hostiles on all floors, bottom-up. Automatic weapons, grenades, and light body armor… Security shutters are runnin' on emergency power, so we have to deal with 'em too. We'll have no sniper support otherwise…"

He flicked them a picture of a non-descript female Caucasian. A brunette, probably in her mid-thirties.

"…The bank manager and four other hostages are in the 2nd floor CEO's Office… the place's locked tighter than a scrooge's purse strings: metal barricades, barbed wire, the works..."

"And Fausse? Is he in there?", the former FBI asked again.

"No positive ID.", Meghan tersely replied. Her demeanor as an intelligence officer was showing. "The tangos are all wearing masks, but we are almost certain he's inside. The drones have heard these guys calling his name…"

She then moved past Seamus's shoulder and gleamed down, placing her finger on some locations in the blueprint. They corresponded to the lobby, the first-floor office area, and the back stairwell leading to the vault.

"…We have significant foot traffic here, here… and here…", she pointed. "…Expect roving patrols at these spots. Two or three men a piece, tops... We have no eyes on the vault, so that's another unknown variable we have to consider."

"Your recommendation?", Marius asked, with his hands on his waist.

"Recon with drones and Black Eyes. We go in with sound suppressors, flashbangs, and smokes… Minimize collateral damage, locate and capture Fausse."

"And the hostages?", Emma brought out a sensible query.

"We leave 'em to the bobbies…", Seamus responded. "...Fausse remains _our_ Priority One. Everyone else in that building is expendable."

"Wait, what?!", she exclaimed. "Then… can we consider a non-lethal approach? We start shooting, we might end up with a handful of-"

"We didn't come down 'ere for a rescue mission, Em…", was her superior's stern reply. "…If our target gets away, we'll be puttin' more people at risk in the future."

Emma was about to speak back in protest, but she withdrew her reply at the last second. Blunt honesty aside, Seamus was right. The guns and ammo they've brought today spoke a thousand words about the threat they would have to deal with today.

Ethan turned his eyes to another picture- that of a grizzled, mustached man with dauntless eyes. Leonard Francis Fausse. Fifty years old. Native of Noxon, Montana. Former Sergeant, 2nd Marine Division, saw action in Desert Storm. Dishonorably discharged after multiple altercations with fellow NCOs. Tried to enter civilian life, but had run-ins with the law. Illegal firearms and drug trafficking. Sentenced to fifty years at the State Prison in Powell, but had his term commuted to ten. He went underground after his release, joined a nondescript far right movement somewhere along the West Coast, until he and a few likeminded individuals branched off to create 'America's True Patriots'. It didn't take long for them to organize this band of activists into the most infamous terrorist group in the country's recent history. Colluding with the White Masks was hardly out of character.

A dangerous individual, in other words. One that must be removed from play as soon as possible. It would be easier if Rainbow just killed him, Ethan thought.

"That goes to the rest of ya...", Seamus continued. "...Target One must be captured alive _and_ unharmed. No fannying 'round."

Miles Campbell crossed his arms, clearly puzzled.

"I don't know. Something feels off… Why rob a bank? Aren't the White Masks well-financed or something? …And they've had plenty of time to escape, so why are they digging in?"

"No idea. That's why we're gonna barge in and ask 'em.", the leader replied with dry humor.

"Let's not go into this one blind…", Meghan reminded. "…I'm pretty sure the tangos have shored up their defenses since that last assault… And I sure as hell don't wanna bumrush our one chance of nailing this asshole alive."

"That's the plan...", Seamus continued. "...SWAT said they're gonna have another go in half an hour. They're asking us to join 'em..."

The burly man began to trace lines on the blueprints with his finger.

"...I reckon a two-pronged approach...Alpha: garage entry. Sweep the vault and the security room, then raise the shutters... Bravo: back alley. Secure the offices and the stairwell at the back... We'll let SWAT take the front entrance and rescue the hostages. Give 'em support if need be..."

Everyone began taking notes in their mind.

"…Alpha will have me as breacher... Jäger on point, Tachanka on rear security... Ace?"

"Sir?", Ethan raised his eyes.

"You'll run support with us. I'm gonna have to trust yer aim, yeah?"

"You got it, sir.", he smiled. At that moment, he felt a tinge of pride in his chest.

"Hmph, try to keep up 'new guy'...", Marius challenged him. There was no doubt that he had a smug look wrapped behind his headgear.

"Hey.", Alex butted in. "Play nice, _bratan_ (brother)."

"Hibana…", the Scotsman continued. "…You will lead Bravo. Take Thermite, and Castle with ya... And have Echo maintain a permanent visual on the X with his drone, just in case..."

A big red 'X' indicated the hostages' location at the second floor. Yumiko Imagawa, formerly of the Aichi Prefectural Police, replied with a nod of conviction. Quiet and composed, she exuded 'leadership material'.

"What about me?", Emma asked.

"Charlie. You'll be with Valk- set up your 417 by the parking structure and provide whatever overwatch you can. Charlie-One will give us eyes inside the building."

"I... yes sir."

The answer obviously didn't sit well with her, causing her to frown in disappointment.

"So, that's it...", Seamus ended his briefing. "Any questions?"

"..."

"Alright then. You know yer jobs. Let's go to work."

The man's orders were met with a few head bobs from the team. Wasting no more time, they dispersed to gather their equipment inside the armored van. Amidst the trunks and lockers was a host of military-grade firearms and other toys. Emma brought out a scoped 417 marksman rifle, while Miles and Jordan grabbed their choice of M1014s from the racks. Seamus, in contrast, seemed satisfied with the 9mm SMG-11 in his hands. As for Ethan, he took out a matte-black Remington R4, fitted with a 2.5x optic. While he much preferred his old battle rifle, the M4-style profile was familiar to him. He took a second to inspect the rifle. 5.56mm NATO, cold-hammer forged barrel, and 1:7 grooves to provide sufficient velocity to a 62-grain bullet for medium to long range. He pulled back the rifle's charging handle and quickly checked if the scope was properly zeroed. Then, he fastened a sound suppressor on the barrel, as per the mission parameters.

Everybody else picked whatever gun and gadget demanded by their role. Everybody seemed ready and eager, except for their lone French operative. She was devoid of her usual smile and enthusiasm, much to the recruit's wonder.

"...Hey. You alright?"

"Hmm?", she turned to him.

"You look... nervous."

Just like that, the anxiety in her face disappeared.

"Oh, shove off, Ace...", she patted his shoulder. "...Worry about yourself."

Emma turned around and walked off, with the 417 propped on her right shoulder. The confidence was genuine, yet oversold. Something was bothering her.

She was right about one thing, though. Ethan should pay more attention to his sorry hide. Just as he was about to grab some ammo, he felt chills crawl up his spine. It was an old, familiar reaction; the realization had just sunk in that he was about to flirt with danger, yet again. He felt his pulse quicken and his hands shake. Out of practice for so long, he suddenly felt vulnerable. Or it might have been his old wounds, putting him out of his zone.

The sudden arrival of another batch of ambulances didn't do much to quell his anxiety. Several police officers rushed to meet the paramedics who emerged from the vans, hauling their wounded comrades onto gurneys and stretchers. If there was a pessimist among the group, they would consider this as a terrible portent.

 _Wish me luck, brother._

He fumbled with Gabe's dog tags, hoping for solace.

...

* * *

…

Twenty minutes have gone by. Four heavily-armed Rainbow operatives huddled to the west of the Bank.

"Alpha-One to all teams…", Seamus radioed. "…We're at the insertion. Sound off."

"Bravo-One: in position and holding.", Yumiko responded.

"Charlie-One: in position, all systems green…", Meghan also spoke. "…Black Eyes have good signal… Waiting on you."

"Alpha-One acknowledges. Anythin' yer vids can tell us?"

"Standby… Garage entrance is clear… Rooftops clear… I have two tangos in the lobby, behind the tellers… Two more tangos patrolling the staircase, second deck. Marking now."

In response, Alpha Team lowered the helmet-mounted imagers to their eyes. They saw a number of red pings in the building's direction, which indicated the hostiles' probable locations.

"Markers received.", Seamus replied. "We're ready for the nod."

"Check that."

Thus, the waiting game began.

As they've discussed with the LAPD, Team Rainbow would form the spearhead of the assault. Alpha was positioned near the garage ramp leading to the loading docks in the basement, where the money trucks regularly made their deliveries. The four-man team was hugging the wall in single file, with Seamus leading the pack and Alex forming the rearguard. The Russian was hefting his big fucking machinegun on a backpack. There were a couple of police cars ahead of them, both shot up and abandoned- a reminder of the battle that raged earlier between the cops and Fausse's men. Bravo was presumably huddled in an alley at the southeast, ready to advance and seize the back offices on the SWAT commander's signal. Charlie, meanwhile, was crouched behind several cars at the adjacent parking structure, with Emma scoping out the place with her rifle and Meghan gluing her eyes to the monitors. The blondie was also the one monitoring comms.

Success in this op would depend on her little cameras. US Navy-issue, gyroscopic, and high-def 360-degree perception, all packed in a gizmo that was less than half the size of a football. The Mk2 Black Eyes were a powerful asset to the team, if one had the strength to throw them at a good distance. But the frogwoman didn't have this problem; she had the arms of a quarterback.

"Heads up.", she suddenly spoke. "Black Eyes Two and Three have picked up more movement. Marking now."

Alpha Team's imagers were decorated with even more red lights, which now totaled to seven. That was half of the enemy accounted for, but it wasn't enough. The rest of the bad guys could still be anywhere at this point. For a moment, it appeared as if Rainbow was about to go into this one completely in the dark, even with dozens of SWAT cops backing them up.

"…Damn, I wish Craig or Tim were here.", the ex-Navy SEAL radioed under her breath. "We could use more shooters."

"We make do with what we have, Charlie-One.", Seamus assured her.

"Ugh. Great…"

It was at this moment that Meghan received another message from her headset, judging from the long silence that precluded her next words.

"…Alpha, SWAT just gave us the nod. We have Code Green. Repeat, Code Green."

"Charlie-Two here.", Emma spoke in the airwaves. "I've got a limited view of the second floor. No tangos in sight; you're cleared to move."

"Affirmative.", Seamus replied. "Let's go lads."

It was time for action.

Just like in the drills, Ethan stood up in sync with his comrades. Alpha Team went in first, sticking to the shadows and advancing in silence as they descended into the basement garage. Upon reaching the end of the ramp, the team crouched under the half-closed security gate, held in place by a derelict, bullet-ridden police car. They took a split-second to observe the vehicle: its roof had caved in under the weight, with bits shards on the hot asphalt. The hood and the windshield were perforated with holes, and a few splotches of blood decorated the dashboard.

"Alpha-One, beginning our entry.", Yumiko reported. "See you on the other side."

"Roger, Bravo-One. Good huntin'."

All four members of Alpha scanned their sectors as they moved across the basement garage, swiftly and quietly. It was quite dim inside; there was no source of light save for the emergency lamps that hummed in silence. The team stopped in their tracks and hugged the wall when they reached a corner. Seamus, ever the valiant leader, holstered his suppressed SMG-11 and threw out one of his reconnaissance drones. If the floorplans were right, Alpha Team was just next to the loading docks, which was a few meters away from the vault and the security room. At this point, all that separated them from the masked gunmen were several feet of brick, steel, and concrete. With luck, Fausse was also on the other side.

The whole place was quiet. Rainbow was about to venture into unknown territory, out of the Black Eyes' line of sight. While Ethan was not really a huge fan of the high-tech shit that Rainbow seemed to love, he was really thankful for the little robots that did the recon for them.

"…I'm counting two, three hostiles inside.", Seamus radioed. "…Entrance is all boarded up… No positive visual on Target One."

"Check, Alpha.", Meghan replied.

"One tango isolated, we're gonna take him out."

At that moment, Yumiko returned to Rainbow's frequency.

"This is Bravo-One, I count three armed hostiles in the staff room. In position to neutralize to them, over."

"Check all.", the blonde woman replied again. "Rainbow is cleared to engage."

Seamus turned to Alpha-Two.

"Jäger… I'm gonna mark a tango ahead. If he peeks through the planks, blow his noggin."

"Got it."

The German cop moved ahead of Alpha's little queue and raised his sound-suppressed 416-C around the corner, anticipating an opportunity. Thanks to the imager on his helmet, he knew exactly where the bad guy was located. His poise was well-practiced and exacting, like a hunter waiting to pounce his prey.

...

Alpha Team's first kill came less than ten seconds later.

*Thwoop!*

"Tango down.", Marius announced.

"Roger, kill confirmed.", Seamus commended. He observed the shot using his drone's camera. "Let's move."

Alpha Team followed his lead with weapons at the ready, knowing that there were at least two more hostiles inside. But first, they had to deal with the wooden barricade that the drone warned them about. The barrier was a hodgepodge, obviously constructed from whatever planks and other scrap of wood and plaster that the bank had lying around. It was held in place by nails; designed more to obstruct view and delay entry, rather than ward off any assailants. Luckily for Alpha, they had the means of removing the obstacle as quietly as possible. The lone Scotsman in the team readied his breaching hammer.

"Stand back.", he ordered.

*Whack!*

A single, well-calculated swing smashed open a gap big enough for one man to squeeze through. Marius was the first person inside the barely-illuminated hall, followed by Seamus, and then the recruit with a suppressed R4. Watching his steps, Ethan glimpsed at the masked robber that the German had just taken out; there was a hole in his cranium and a gory mess on the floor. Nobody seemed to have heard their entry.

"Coast is clear.", Seamus whispered.

His teammates followed his lead again, walking and crouching just as he quietly as he was. From there, it was just a short walk either to the vault on one side and the security room on the other. They decided to take a left, all the while keeping their feet away from the shards of glass and spent bullet casings on the floor. The team was committed to rush the lobby leading to the vault itself. But then, Alpha One raised a closed fist, ordering everyone to stop. There were voices coming out of the large, metal door, which was left wide open. Two men, seemingly preoccupied with something else, were chatting amongst themselves.

Alpha Team kept their ears peeled.

"We need more bags, kid!", an older fellow shouted. "We got a shit-ton of money to haul!"

"Everyone's manning positions upstairs, Bryce. We shouldn't even be here. The boss said-"

"Oh, fuck him! There's more than enough here to set us all up for life!"

"Were you even paying attention upstairs!? He said we wait for Caleb's guys! That's the plan!"

It was an odd piece of dialogue. Seamus looked like he mentally scratched his head.

"Charlie-One, you get all that?"

"Check that, Alpha.", Meghan radioed back. "Target One is either ground-level or at the second floor… Sounds like we have enemy reinforcements en route as well..."

The last sentence just raised the stakes. Ethan felt his pulse rise in tempo. Enemy reinforcements? How many? He suddenly felt an urge to check his ammo, see if it was enough to accommodate a few extra targets. He hoped that the police cordon above would be enough to ward off the robbers' friends if they came. But everything was moot until the situation developed.

More importantly, the chatter from the bad guys all but confirmed that Fausse was still in the building.

It was time to clear the next room. To keep their presence hidden, Alpha One turned around and used hand signals to tell his team what to do next. He would distract the two hostiles inside the vault, and Marius and Ethan would have to pick them off simultaneously. The timing had to be incredibly precise and sharpish, lest the bad guys would just have enough time to alert their friends upstairs. Alex, on the other hand, was ordered to watch their backs and keep anyone from jumping them from the security room. The job of the rearguard was a thankless one, but it was crucial for Alpha Team's safety.

With the orders handed out, Seamus moved ahead and crouched behind the corner, while his teammates remained behind. He took one of the large pieces of glass on the floor and prepared to throw it. Alpha-Two and Alpha-Three patiently waited, with their fingers on the triggers...

*TING!*

The shard rang loudly as it hit the marble floor. It immediately got the two gunmen's attention.

"What the- Tony? Was that you?"

They called for their friend outside, unaware that he had already joined the deceased less than a minute ago. The two gunmen faced the source of the noise, cocked their weapons, and proceeded to walk out of the vault. The footsteps were audible enough for Alpha Team to follow, allowing them to anticipate the enemies' movements. A few seconds' worth of silence followed...

 _Now!_

*Thwoop! Thwoop! Thwoop! Thwoop!*

The black-clad commandos sprang their surprise, as the air snapped with the near-silent hissing of the subsonic bullets. A couple of the shots caught the first robber's head, causing him to jerk back and fall over, dead. The other gunman, who was hoisting a rather large duffel bag, was also doubly ventilated, hitting his sternum and neck. The cash-laden bag over his shoulders had a few bills dangling when he fell, causing them to flutter on impact. The vault now had two corpses, and newer splotches of blood.

"Vault clear. Move in, move in!", Seamus ordered.

Marius and Ethan did as they were told, guns raised and ready for more hostiles. To their relief, they didn't have any opposition. A moment of peace. As such, they scanned their respective sectors for anything else that was amiss. The emergency lights gave the vault a rather dim, yellowish hue. The safety deposit boxes were secure. A lot of bills littered the floor. Alpha Team also feasted their eyes on the stacks of money that graced the tables. The recently-killed tangos had been counting their loot, quite messily as the operators noted, and stuffing the wads in the duffel bags.

But a closer look raised a few eyebrows. Mixed in with the Ben Franklins were the unmistakable colors of Euro banknotes, in denominations of a hundred at least. The stacks of paper money lacked identifying markers and serial numbers, which led Ethan to believe that they were uncirculated. Maybe even counterfeit. It was strange to see them all sorted and crumpled, whereas the stacks of American dollars and gold bars at the adjacent room were in pristine condition. As if they didn't entice the robbers.

"This is strange…" Ethan muttered. "…Why didn't they pack these with the rest of their stash?"

"Not for us to know, mate.", Seamus replied.

It was odd for the bad guys to miss these items on purpose. What were they planning? Was this why they didn't escape? The mission did not allow time for detective work, however. Alpha Team still had a second objective. They still needed to seize the security room and retract the shutters, so that the police snipers could back them up. With everything right as rain so far, Alpha One pressed the button on his headset.

"Bravo. We're right below you. Vault is secured, what's your status?"

"Just cleared the break room and open area. Three EKIA. Echo still has visual on the X... No positive ID on Target One, over.

"Alpha copies. Be advised, we're movin' to the security room to-"

*BOOOOM!*

Suddenly, the entire room rumbled from a loud bang from the floor above, rattling everyone's bells.

"What the bloody hell was that!?"

For a split-second, Ethan felt his heart burst through his chest. He thought that someone had just stepped on a pressure plate or a tripwire. Then it became clear that the explosion was far away from his position. It was followed by sporadic bursts of gunfire and frantic screams from above. Telltale signs of a major battle.

"Holy shit!", Emma hollered into the radio. "They rigged the entrance!"

"All teams, all teams: SWAT is under heavy contact at the lobby…", Meghan also spoke. Her calm voice was laced with urgency. "…Cameras are tracking multiple tangos converging on their position."

Automatic fire and panicked yelling all but confirmed Team Rainbow's worst fears. Before the team leader could reply, however, the distinctive firing of Alex's sound-suppressed SMG clattered from the hallway.

"This is Alpha-Four! Enemy contact!"

Such a quick turn of events. The gunfire upstairs must have stirred the tangos in the security room into action, right into the Russian's crosshairs.

A frustrated sigh. Ethan and the rest of the team hurried out of the vault to come to Alex's aid. They found him crouching behind a corner, exchanging fire with tangos. From the sounds of it, there were about two guys unloading bullets from the security room. The team was only a few feet away from touching Alex's shoulder, until he suddenly darted from his spot. There was a look of surprise in his eyes, which gave his comrades a several level of alarm. It could only mean one thing...

" _Chyort_ (Shit)! GRENAAADE! GET BACK!"

*BOOOM!*

...

Another rumbling explosion and a hail of shrapnel. It was too close for comfort this time, with pieces of molten metal missing the operators' bodies by inches. They grunted and cursed, pulling back from the hallway. All four commandos felt the grenade's shockwave rattle their insides for a little, but they were unharmed.

And just like that, the mission went awry. Such tough luck for the cops, being ambushed twice in a row. Even more so for Rainbow, who suddenly found itself engorged in a vicious close quarters battle, exactly how Meghan feared their mission would devolve into. Ethan could hear her making call-outs via the radio, but his ears were still ringing from the explosion. It was deja vu for him. For a few seconds, he felt like he was back in the Middle East. So much gunfire. So many explosions. So much tension and stress.

'Capture Leonard Fausse'. It proved difficult for him to remember the main objective amidst the din and chaos of battle. He was shaken and petrified, but his body forced itself to stand up. There was a mix of emotions in his heart, even as his ears struggled to hear again. He was furious. Everything was going smoothly until the bad guys pulled another dastardly trick from their sleeves. Suddenly, nothing mattered to Ethan Mallory, except getting him and his friends out of this mess. He wanted so bad to jump back right into the fray, and drill a few new holes into the bad guys. He reloaded his rifle, proving his conviction.

"Alpha-One, this is Bravo.", Yumiko suddenly radioed. "We're moving around to assist SWAT. Request you chop off two of your guys to our position, over."

"…"

"Alpha-One! Did you receive my last?"

"Yeah, I got it! *coughs*", Seamus shouted. "Ace! Throw smoke!"

"Roger! Smoking out!"

Grabbing one of the M18s strapped to his waste, Ethan removed the pin and tossed the grenade across the hallway. The team needed some cover before they could dismount from their position. The canister burst soon after, releasing a cloud of white smoke that slowly accumulated. It filled the hall with a noxious gas that was difficult for the bad guys to see through. Thankfully, Alpha Team had the benefit of high-tech imaging technology on their side. Seamus, seizing the initiative, used his drone to mark targets, providing his teammates with several new red pings to focus on. Then, he motioned to Alex to deploy his machinegun. The Russian nodded with utmost glee, dropping his backpack and quickly assembling his prized RP-46.

The turret was propped up not a moment too soon. He set it down in the middle of the hallway, behind an overturned trolley for sufficient cover. The vintage barrel bore down the hall with a menacing look. Then, it came to life with ear-ringing spits of fire.

*Bratatatatatatatat!*

There were screams of terror on the other side of the hall, even as the smoke continued to build. Bullets audibly ripped through flesh, steel, and concrete. Alex began to yell with bravado.

"URRRRAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

His voice was as an accompaniment to the gunfire. Marius, eager to lend him a hand, also let loose with his sound-suppressed assault rifle, without much care for subtlety or finesse.

"We got this, new guy!", he told Ethan. "You and Sledge take ze stairs now!"

His shots meshed with the distinctive clattering of the Soviet weapon that his partner wielded. The bravery and tenacity said it all: the duo laid down covering fire, allowing Alpha One and Alpha Three to displace from cover and rush to the stairs. There was no time to think. It didn't matter that they left half of the team behind, outnumbered and outgunned. It didn't matter they lacked sniper support. More so than the recruit, who was thrown into a maelstrom of gunfire on his first assignment. Normally calling the shots on his own, today he was content to follow the burly man's lead like a trusty footslogger. His heart was beating out of his chest, rife with fury and excitement. He tried his damnedest to keep the mission in his head.

Time was of the essence. Ethan and Seamus made their way up the staircase, heedless of the gunfire that rang throughout the building. Their guns were raised, ready to drop any poor fool who stood in their way. They trusted Alex and Marius to fight through the security room and raise the shutters, as the rest of Alpha advanced to Bravo's position from the other side. Surprisingly, the plan was back on track. There were a lot more bullets to dodge this time, however.

"Charlie Two to Alpha Three…", Emma called on the horn. "…Tango spotted above you."

What came next was the sound of shattered glass from up high, followed by a loud gasp that ended abruptly. A few seconds later, the body of a dead gunman tumbled and landed in front of Ethan, giving him a mild surprise.

"Woah. Nice shot!"

" _Merci_ (Thanks). Keep moving, Alpha. I got you covered!"

He glimpsed at her position, mentally giving her a thumbs-up. Quickly scanning for targets, Seamus pointed his SMG at both sides of the hallway, then he hooked right. His teammate followed his tail, watching his six with the R4. Then, the two of them crossed the threshold to the open area together, and soon stumbled across a room of cubicles with a number of dead bodies. Gunmen put down by Bravo Team. They already said that Fausse was not among the corpses, so the two operators pressed on.

"Charlie-One. We're moving through the open area and the break room."

"Check that Alpha-Three. Watch the terraces and the skylight on your way out."

They moved across the rooms, stopping for nothing. Just a few meters away from their position was Yumiko and the rest of Bravo, fighting to reach the ambushed cops at the lobby. Ethan wanted to lend them a hand. He and his team leader could swing in from the tellers' office and flank the bad guys. But he also knew that the mission was a higher priority. 'Capture Leonard Fausse'. The gunmen said that their boss was upstairs, so that was Rainbow's next destination. They could not afford to be distracted.

It was only a short dash to the staircase on the other side…

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

A fresh stream of bullets came from up high, hammering the marble floor ahead of them. The two men immediately darted back to avoid the gunmen's line of sight.

"Fuck! Take cover!"

Frustration continued to build. While Seamus motioned to him to hang back, Ethan felt restless behind cover. They needed to keep moving, lest they would be outflanked by the hostiles who were undoubtedly scrambling all over the place. And so, the recruit kept his gun ready. Amidst the cacophony of gunfire throughout the building, he was able to distinguish the unique report of a Russian LMG, possibly a PKM, that was keeping them pinned. Right then, he discovered a renewed resolve and an itch for payback. Rather than be gripped with fear, he let his courage take over. He took out one of the stun grenades in his chest rig.

"Flash out!", he yelled.

*Bang!*

The blinding sparkle and ringing noise was followed by a host of pained grunts. The gunmen had just had their senses bombarded by 170 decibels and a sudden flash of eye-searing light. Seizing the chance, Seamus and Ethan rushed to the other side with his rifle raised. Instinct told the former sniper that his targets were above, so he trained his rifle scope to the second floor. And there he was: a masked assailant wearing bulky white overalls, standing on the terrace, covering his eyes, and about to lose his grip on his machinegun. With the way he staggered, the bad guy's menacing firearm soon fell out of his hands and dropped on the floor below. He was alone and unarmed: a sitting duck for the ACOG.

*Thwoop! Thwoop!*

"Boss get down!"

Ethan had lined up two kill shots when, from out of nowhere, another gunman entered his line of sight and jumped in front to shield his friend. The poor bastard caught a couple of 5.56mm bullets on his back, causing him to wheeze and crumple over. His corpse later fell over with a bone-crushing thud, joining the LMG in a broken pile of metal, blood, and bullets.

 _Boss?_

That word could only mean one thing. Ethan kept his eyes trained at the tango in the bulky suit, rather than shoot him dead. The bastard soon regained his senses, and immediately motioned an urge to run, rather than fight. This guy... seemed different from the others. Self-preservation. It could only mean one thing. The recruit decided to trust his gut, once again.

"FAUSSE!", he shouted

The name went through like a sword. Rather than face the dark-clad commando, the masked man bolted from view, visibly afraid.

"Stop right there!", Seamus yelled.

The burly Scotsman gave chase from the stairs, with his subordinate close behind. While navigating the flight of steps, they saw a few gunmen suddenly emerge from the second-floor hallway, intending to cut them down as they went up. But the two operators let their training respond in kind: they let loose a hail of fire from their weapons that dropped the tangos screaming and dying. Three more corpses adding to the list of bad guys killed.

The man in white kept running.

"MEGHAN! I HAVE A VISUAL ON TARGET ONE! WE'RE IN PURSUIT!"

"Goddamit, check that!", Meghan's voice was filled with urgency. "All teams, all teams: Target One is on the second deck. Charlie-Two, check your targets and confirm!"

Fausse quickly made a right turn and disappeared from the two operators' view. Recalling the Bank's blueprints, Ethan figured that the bastard had just made his way to the conference room, smackdab next to the CEO's Office. Winded but determined, Ethan and Seamus followed their quarry, ready for anything he might throw their way. It seemed reckless to rush their target, rather than check their corners for any threat waiting surprise them. Little did they know that a stroke of luck was on their side: amidst the chaos and the gunfire, the bad guys at the lobby didn't realize that Team Rainbow had already broken through their defenses, already hounding the heels of their leader. The end was near.

Ethan was the first person who entered the conference room. He was ready to let loose a few shots from his R4, when he suddenly heard the air to his right wisp and crack. Instinctively, he dove into an overturned desk in the lounge, just in time for a torrent of bullets to burst through the wooden wall. They turned the door frame behind him into a pincushion; Seamus had barely enough time to fall back unscathed.

"Fuckin' shite!", he cursed behind cover. "Ace! What's yer status!?"

"*cough* I'm fine… I have eyes on the target."

Unfazed by the firepower, he peeked behind the table to observe the room ahead. It was the CEO's Office, where he found a collection of five, tied up, gagged, huddled in fear. Behind them was the man in white: Leonard Fausse, Target One, who was donning the same costume as his men. But his was slightly different. Heavy body armor and bandoliers on top of a bleach-white Hazmat suit. There were several tubes that ran all over his body, and there seemed to be a bulky oxygen tank strapped on his back. There were plenty of blinking lights as well, most of them were concentrated on the ammo pouches…

...

 _Oh shit!_

Ethan blinked his eyes. He was mistaken. The pouches didn't hold mags or ammo. They were _blocks of C4_. Enough to obliterate the entire floor, vaporize anything within 300 meters and beyond.

"Alpha-One! Target has a suicide vest!", he whispered. "Say again: Target One has a suicide vest! He's rigged to blow!"

"Bloody hell! Alpha-Three, fall back now!"

It was worse than he feared. First a shootout, then a hostage situation… now Rainbow had to deal with a bomb threat. The former Delta sniper shook his head at the incredulous turn of events. Peeking out again, he saw that Fausse had a pistol in one hand and a detonator on the other. Ethan's combat experience and moral compass told him to kill the bastard and stop a major catastrophe. But would the mission allow it? Would Rainbow abet in killing a principal suspect just to save lives? What would Six do when she learned about this? There were so many variables that went through his head. They vied for space and attention. They tested his patience.

"Negative sir. He's mine…"

Against all sense, Ethan stood up with his rifle aimed at Fausse. But he didn't open fire.

"…Give it up Fausse! It's over!"

The man in the white overalls was speechless, as if he didn't expect a trained killer to parlay with him. But then, he let his defiance get the better of him.

"FUCK YOU!"

"You got nowhere to run! Put down your weapons and place your hands on your head!

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

Alpha Three took a few more steps. He kept his cool and his trigger-finger steady, even though a slow rage boiled in his blood. He didn't have time for this rubbish. He placed a pound of trigger-pressure in reserve, just in case. If things went south, there was a 62-grain bullet in the chamber with Fausse's name on it. Without the SWAT snipers, he only had himself to trust.

"Think this over, pal!", Ethan yelled. "Nobody else has to die today if you turn yourself in!"

"SHUT UP! GET BACK OR I'LL-"

Fausse remained firm, tightening his grip on the pistol and the remote control for the bombs on his body. The hostages, particularly the bank manager, continued to whimper and beg. It was definitely a nightmare scenario for them: their fate rested on a crazed lunatic and a heavily-armed soldier. Ethan felt their plight; there was an urge in his heart to console them, even if it meant handing out false assurances. But he needed to stand his ground as well, lest the masked bastard in the room would take them all out.

At that moment, Seamus whispered to him via radio.

"Ace. Keep him talkin'... Be ready to tackle him in five... Bravo-Four, are you set?"

The callsign belonged to Masaru Enatsu. Echo.

" _Mochiron_ (Of course). Awaiting your word.", the Japanese man replied.

It seemed that his comrades had a plan. Ethan pondered about it for a while, sifting through the mission briefing if he missed a crucial detail. Then, he remembered Bravo Team's drone. It was still on the ceiling, watching the action and hiding from view. There was an opportunity in the works. And so, the charade continued.

"Let these people go, Fausse! They've got nothing to do with this!"

"NO! NO!", the other man resisted. "They are my ticket outta here! You government dogs don't know how anythin' works, do ya!?"

 _...Three_

 _Two._

 _One._

*WOOOOM!*

A deep, whirring noise suddenly erupted from the ceiling. Louder than the most obnoxious subwoofer. It was so powerful that Ethan visualized a sonic boom careen from above and go straight to the madman's body. The impact rang everyone's ears, but none more so than Fausse, who immediately screamed in pain and dropped his weapons. Slightly dazed, the Rainbow operative saw the opportunity to pin him into the ground.

"Argh!"

The target offered no struggle, as the commando wrestled him and removed all the wires from his suit. There were a lot of screams from the hostages, as usual for civilians unaccustomed to violence. Hearing the commotion, Seamus rushed inside the office with his weapon drawn, surprised to see that his plan worked. Then, he lent his teammate a hand by producing handcuffs from his utility belt. He also recovered the detonator, and promptly removed its power source.

"Target One is captured.", he called into his radio. "Repeat, Target One is captured… Bloody good job, Echo."

He and Ethan brought their prisoner up on his feet. They forcibly removed the ballistic mask from the suit, revealing the visage of a dazed, defeated, and pathetic man. He was drenched with sweat, as they all were. He looked like he was about to cry. Neither of the two commandos had any sympathy for him.

"Okay! I surrender! I surr- *smack!*"

"Shut up, you fuckin' son of a bitch!", Seamus cursed, after he gave him a mean right hook.

The Scotsman's fury mirrored Ethan's. It was clear that they wanted to give their prisoner a ferocious beating, after what he did today. Within the seconds, the gunfire throughout the building began to subside, followed by shouts from the good guys. All hostiles had been taken out. Then, a flood of footsteps. Fellow Rainbow operatives and SWAT officers stormed the office from all sides, weapons drawn. Seeing that Fausse had been subdued, they turned their attention to the hostages, crying their hearts out of fear, stress, and relief.

"Alpha-One to Alpha-Four. What's yer status?"

" _Da_. We're fine _tovarishch_!", a man with a thick accent happily replied. "We're at security room... All targets dead. We are lifting shutters now."

The metal panels at the windows began to retract, slowly bathing the building with a bright, midday light. Then, more people began to converge in the Bank. Additional cops, SWAT officers, and paramedics. They all poured into the entrance from the streets, to check at the carnage and tend to the casualties. A few of them went to the hostages, who were understandably shaken from the battle. Yumiko and Jordan emerged from the stairs and lent them a hand, while Miles and Masaru went to escort the civvies outside. A terrible smell filled the small confines of the well-furnished office. Dust, gunpowder, and the unmistakable tang of blood filled the air. But for everyone else breathing, the adrenaline was gone.

The crisis was over.

It was time to get Fausse out of the building. Ethan grabbed him by the collar, forcibly dragging him out of the room. The urge to punch him in the gut dangled like a carrot on a stick.

"Hey! I know my rights!", the prisoner spoke out. "I need protection! I want a lawyer!"

"Save your breath, dipshit."

"You don't understand! I'm ready to cooperate! J-Just... Just give me a second to explain!"

Cops and commandos could barely believe what they were hearing. America's Most Wanted, the dreaded leader of ATP, a self-styled revolutionary… was mewling like a baby. His menacing visage had fallen apart; now he looked like a crazy kook being dragged away. Was his reputation worth nothing? Suddenly, his name seemed more like a misnomer.

"A reckoning is coming!", he rambled. "Three weeks from now! Mohandes is gonna strike and-"

The words struck a nerve in Ethan's brain. He suddenly spun to face the old man, eye-to-eye. He clenched his fingers around the Hazmat suit's collar.

"What did you say?!"

'Mohandes'. The name was a familiar one. The rogue chemist. 'The Engineer'. The target of Operation Witch Hunt. The same man who was pinched on his watch, all those months ago. The same bastard who got Gabe, Omar, and the others killed. The same guy who undoubtedly had a hand in the attack on Bartlett, five days ago. Compound Z. The Middle East. Emily. All sorts of thoughts began to pour into Ethan's brain.

"Mohandes! Where is he!?", he yelled, tightening his grip. "WHERE IS HE!?"

"Oi! Take it easy, Ace!", Seamus chastised him.

Ethan didn't listen. He wanted answers. The name was like a trigger, causing him to briefly relive his failed mission and the deaths of his friends. While he tried his damnedest to keep the rage in check, his prisoner was visibly shaken at the amount of anger. But to his credit, he had no problem spilling the beans. For a moment, he seemed nothing like the briefing made him out to be.

"I don't know where he is, okay!", the old man pleaded. "But he's using a different name now. Get me to a federal prison and I can tell you everything!"

"WHERE IS HE!? WHERE THE FUCK IS HE!?"

"Look kid, you gotta to help me! Caleb's gonna come for me, but it won't be a rescue! I know what they're planning, and I think he's gonna-"

*SPLAT!*

...

It came from the left side. Ethan heard the air in front him suddenly snap, startling him a bit. His face was splashed with a spurt of liquid, staining in his goggles. He didn't know what had just happened; there was nothing else other than a bone-crushing thud and the sickening sound of flesh and meat, grinded together.

When he looked at Fausse again, there was... something wrong. What used to be a grizzled, mustached face of a terrorist and a petulant fool was suddenly unrecognizable. It was a reddish pulp, like a cracked watermelon, with all sorts of bits intermeshed within. A stream of claret gushed from the man's neck and jaw. Then... it dawned on him. His goggles had been sprayed with blood. The body he held by the collar had become limp. Dead. The adrenaline returned, as cautious fear gripped him once again.

The bank manager saw the whole thing. She screamed in terror.

"S... SNIPEEEER!", Ethan yelled.

In turn, everyone ducked for cover.

...

* * *

...

*TING!*

The empty brass casing landed on the linoleum floor with a distinctive ping. Caleb racked the bolt to chamber a new round- a precaution in case he needed to fire another shot. But he already knew that he had a clean hit. The target was about 700 yards from his position at the penthouse. The distance stretched his M40's effective range, but it was nothing that an adjustment to bullet velocity and trajectory didn't fix. The result was a textbook confirmed kill: an old man, dead on the floor. Rainbow's would-be intelligence coup, flatlined.

It was good that the cops raised the Bank's security shutters. The sniper peered into his scope for a while longer, wiping the trail of sweat from his auburn brow. He admired the mess he made, like a kid on the microscope. The black-clad commandos were frantic at the sight of Leonard Fausse having half his skull blown off. It was a little funny, seeing some of the 'best warriors on the planet' scurry like startled ants and head to cover. There was an urge in his blood to shoot them, give himself a few less obstacles to overcome in the days ahead. But doing so would compromise his escape plan.

One less loose end. Without missing a beat, Caleb lifted his sniper rifle from the propped-up table. He retracted the bipod, removed the sound suppressor, and took out the box magazine, which still had nine bullets left. He also undid the screws from the 5x scope to remove it from the weapon's top rail. Then, he gathered all the parts and returned them to the polymer rifle case sitting at the hotel bed, carefully placing each piece onto their respective compartments. Leave no evidence. The last detail was the spent rifle shell on the floor, which quickly found a place in the bald man's jacket pocket. The haste was crucial; by the time the police have dispersed search parties, the shooter would already be long gone. They wouldn't know right away that the shot came from _their_ position. And if they saw him in the crowd, they wouldn't even notice: he looked like another upstanding member of Los Angeles's Finest, thanks to the badge and the black overalls. He just needed to keep his cool, play the part of an actor like he did in Bartlett five days ago.

But just as he was about to make his way out, his eyes glimpsed at his prisoner. Gagged, tied up to a chair, and in his boxers. It was a cop: the same guy that Caleb knocked out to relieve him of his uniform. The poor guy was sweating profusely and his eyes were rife with fear. He was mumbling out something, muffled by the thick cloth wrapped around his mouth.

'Please don't kill me'. 'Please let me go'. Or whatever rubbish people say when they beg for their lives.

Caleb shook his head, briefly chastising himself for driving to California from Oregon without bringing his own disguise. It was sloppy work, but the old fool forced him to act at such incredibly short notice. All this trouble could've been avoided if it weren't for Fausse and his goons. They could've just waited things out, let the cops grasp at straws. Alas, they acted recklessly and painted themselves with even more crosshairs. A vain attempt to appease the Bossman, by pulling off a heist to recoup their losses in Ibiza. But this last hurrah from those idiots was the final evidence, the last proof that 'America's True Patriots' was nothing more than a band of glorified anarchists with a manifesto. All romp and bravado, but no actual skill.

The perfect cannon fodder. And now they've dismantled themselves, it was time for the other cells to find more bodies to throw into the grinder.

"Alpha One-One-Niner, report in."

Caleb froze at the doorknob when his walkie-talkie suddenly buzzed in. He was monitoring the police chatters since he arrived, but it slipped his mind to get rid of the damn radio once he was done with what he came here for.

"Alpha One-One-Niner, do you read?"

"Ten-Four, Dispatch. Loud and clear...", he played along.

"Units reported shots fired near your position. Can you confirm, over?"

Another setback. The sniper paused for a few seconds, contemplating his next actions. What he did today was meant to pave the way for the next phase. The Engineer's work must continue unimpeded, and the last thing they need was an old man who would rat them out. But then, there was the prisoner: a poor bastard at the wrong place. Another witness who could jeopardize everything. Another obstacle.

"Negative, Dispatch. I didn't hear anythin'..."

He made up his mind in a heartbeat. He pulled out a sound-suppressed pistol and cocked the hammer. The man tied to the chair widened his eyes in absolute dread. He whimpered even more.

*Pht!*

Another headshot, another loose end dealt with. The prisoner jerked for a moment, then slumped. A pool of blood slowly trickled.

'Nothing personal man.' The thought didn't cross the sniper's mind. He simply picked up the empty handgun cartridge on the floor and holstered his weapon. If there was one thing that the Marines taught Caleb, every action should serve a purpose. Every effort must be calculated. Every death must have a use. And so, he left the room and locked the door behind him. For now, his job was done.

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** This is the longest one I've written so far, holy crap. The 'bank scene' turned into two chapters while I was writing it, but I decided against splitting them up so as to not ruin the pacing. I hope I did justice to the other operators, particularly Tachanka, Echo, and Jäger. I fully intend to put them back into action (maybe in later chapters). :)


	7. Chapter 6 - All Hands on Deck

**Update (9/1/2017):** I changed the date on the third section to be consistent with Chapter Four.

* * *

 **Chapter Six – "All Hands on Deck"**

* * *

National Security Operations Center (NSOC), Location: Classified  
2240 hours

…

A dark room, brightened by computer screens and dim blue lights. A digital timer, counting to four minutes and twenty seconds. Hushed tones, murmurs, and a TV at the corner providing some ambience. The day was not yet over.

…

 _"…erupted with gunshots and explosions, not long after SWAT officers stormed the bank a second time. We have no word as to the casualties from this… bloody confrontation in Downtown, though some sources claim that at least seven from the LAPD have been killed. There are also rumors that-"_

…

An unnamed staffer pressed the mute button, cutting the news segment short. It was game time.

While most of the country slept soundly, a handful of analysts from the National Security Agency remained wide awake, business as usual. They had been following the hunt for Leonard Fausse with grim determination since Langley shared them the intel this morning. The sun had set hours ago. Fausse was confirmed dead before lunchtime, but his last few goons were still on the loose. NSOC had to work around the clock, coordinating resources and assets to put an end to the threat once and for all. A whole lot of mucking about while the good guys fought and bled.

But at long last, the denouement was near. 'Six', the Deputy Director of the Rainbow Program, was given a frontrow seat to witness the end. She was here at her behest, even if her body much preferred to be in bed at this hour. The day had been long and exhausting in equal parts, but she promised herself that she'd see it through.

"Coffee, ma'am?", her aide asked.

The young man in the suit was offering her a steaming cup.

"No need, Ryan. I'm fine."

The high-level pass pinned to her coat gave her unparalleled access behind the scenes. She observed the sleep-deprived analysts type into their keyboards and speak into their headsets. The large monitors showed a live feed from a couple of MQ-1 drones hovering above a quaint, coast side neighborhood in San Pedro, Los Angeles. The time zone difference meant it was seven o'clock in the evening over there, as shown by the timestamp. At least one monitor kept a bird's eye view of a two-story house, surrounded by what looked to be police vehicles and dozens of armed cops. According to the CIA, this particularly innocuous building was actually a hideout, occupied by the remaining members of America's True Patriots. LAPD's finest were given the honor of seizing it from the terrorists.

A last stand, in other words. It was a pity that Team Rainbow decided to sit this one out, but they've already had their fill of the fighting for today. It was time for the locals to carry on.

"Green light, green light. All units move in.", Six overheard the radio chatter.

The action unfolded in the monitors. Within seconds, dozens of silhouettes stormed the house from all directions- the construction site, the river docks, the side street, and the backyard. Their maneuvers were well-drilled, their discipline unflinching. A company's worth of highly-trained shooters versus a handful of murderers, cornered like rats. It looked like a one-sided encounter, but the ATP had it coming. They marked themselves for death when they turned Downtown into a warzone this morning, to say nothing of their hand in the massacre at Bartlett five days ago. There would be no escape for them, and they knew it. Another vicious battle was all but inevitable…

"Holy shit!", one of the analysts exclaimed.

…And the prediction quickly proved to be right on the money.

Sleepy eyes were shot awake as the camera feeds went bright for a moment. Six held her breath as she witnessed a police car suddenly erupt into a ball of fire. Parked in the house's driveway, the vehicle had received the business end of an RPG fired from the second-floor window. SWAT cops standing nearby were immediately swept from their feet and forced into the ground by the blast. Then, muzzle flashes flickered everywhere; a serious gunfight had just broken out. As expected, the radio was flooded with frantic call-outs and status reports, but they were too chaotic for the NSA to follow. The younger analysts, rattled to their core, continued to play their role with frenzied hands and voices. They could do nothing from their end except to watch.

NSOC's mission timer counted to six minutes. The shooting gradually died down, slowly replaced with plenty of shouting and cursing from the cops. More and more of their number poured into the house, until the gunfire finally subsided for good. A minute later later, humanoid figures emerged from the house, some of them were limping and carried by their comrades. Status reports were given. Requests for ambulances were made. Stretchers were rushed into the scene by on-site medics. Just like that, the carnage was over.

"All tangos neutralized. Repeat: all tangos neutralized."

The message felt like music to everyone's ears. There were sighs of relief all around, as the analysts exchanged handshakes and pats to the back. The older ones, grim and tired, considered the cheering to be beneath them, but they were just as elated. As for Rainbow Six, she simply closed her eyes and sighed to herself. She had seen enough. Rather than hand out congratulations, she turned around and slinked out of the large room, moving past shoulders and clapping hands. Her trusted helper followed her closely. The blue lights were replaced with greenish orbs on the hallway outside.

Neither of them wanted to join in the revelry. They strode at a brisk pace, eager to grab the chance to finally get home

"Could you call Doug?", she asked, referring to her driver. "We're done here."

"Right away, ma'am."

The young man pulled out a cellphone from his coat and fiddled away. His boss, meanwhile, kept walking along the hall to the exit. A pair of armed sentries were waiting for her at the end, beckoning her to return the pass and to log-out her biometrics. They thanked her politely, to which she replied with a slight grin and a nod. If only the pleasantries matched her mood.

This day was a strong contender for being the longest and the most stressful of her career. Where to start? She was still dealing with the aftermath of Bartlett this morning when she was chewed out by Director Robert Treadway of Homeland Security. Then a robbery broke out in LA, which turned out to be an attack carried out by the country's most dangerous band of killers to date. Judging how that shitshow ended, Six was rightfully worried about the future. She wanted to see firsthand if the cops and the feds could manage without Rainbow's help. She expected that coming to NSOC and watching the good guys work would allay her fears. Sadly, this visit only gave her the opposite. To her dismay, she realized that a handful of grimly-determined psychos _could_ _indeed_ wreak havoc in short time, despite the odds. What more could they do if they had months of planning? Cambridge, Downtown, San Pedro… New York might be the next one the list, what with the upcoming Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit just a few weeks away.

Freedom Day.

"Ryan..."

"Yes, boss?"

"...Care to share your thoughts on... current events?"

The kid froze for a few seconds, gathering the proper words in his head. Six just asked him an incredibly vague question, but then he understood what she actually meant by it. She wanted a second opinion.

"I think our guys have done well today, ma'am... As for the cops... Well, if the DHS wants us in a more... active role, I suppose we have no choice."

"Hmph. Figured as much."

They agreed in one thing: the police couldn't always be trusted to get the job done. So far, they had been lagging behind and taking tremendous losses. At this rate, the steady escalation of terrorist attacks would ultimately put a strain on Rainbow's already-thin numbers. In time, Six might even be forced to have the guys at Hereford pitch in, but that would shift their focus away from Europe and leave the continent more vulnerable. The team had no one else to rely on.

Six wanted to scream in frustration. She may have gotten her boys and girls into a mess that was far greater than she had anticipated. Her taskforce possessed the best talent, the best training, the best gear, yet the White Masks were still able to go toe-to-toe with them at every turn. And whenever they did, innocent people paid the price. No wonder Treadway was worried. Whoever these masked killers really were, they gauge 'success' based on how they could make the good guys look weak and incompetent. Dead kids, security breaches, high-profile theft, widespread destruction, violence, and mayhem...

 _But to what end?_

It was the same question Six had been asking herself more than five days ago. Before the homefront was attacked, other countries had been hit. Russia, Germany, the Ivory Coast. She crossed her arms and placed a thumb under her chin. Now that she thought about it, this string of attacks felt like something straight out of a war room. Like they were part of some long-term military strategy, aimed at achieving a bigger goal. As if the enemy was probing them for weaknesses. She continued with this train of thought as she boarded the elevator to the lobby.

"Director.", her aide spoke out. "All teams have just touched down at Fort Bragg."

"That so?", she turned around. "Everyone's in one piece?"

"Yes, ma'am. Full headcount."

"Good. Tell them I want an after action report tomorrow, 0900. They need to spell out _exactly_ what happened to the Subject during the extract."

The young man nodded and resumed his attention to the phone. At that moment, Six was reminded of her own soldiers, who fought tooth and nail earlier today. Not to discount their courage and skill, but they nonetheless failed to secure their Subject: Leonard Fausse, their main objective. A few hostages saved, in exchange for losing what would have been a massive intelligence coup for Team Rainbow and the alphabet agencies. Without one of their key leaders to spill the beans, the White Masks were once again free to do as they wished, unopposed.

At least there was a silver lining today. Seamus and the others survived unscathed, and that was a victory in itself. Like everything in this ruthless business, it was only through a damn miracle that they lived to see another day at all. They would need this kind of luck in the coming weeks. With what happened in Los Angeles today, Six could already anticipate the suits breathing down her neck. Soon, she would have no choice but to give in, and hand the reins of the Program over to those who would use them as glorified security guards in New York, three weeks from now. But that was nothing compared to the prospect of the Edda, the Enhanced Domestic Defense Act, coming into force. Pessimistically, it would mean the permanent dissolution of Rainbow as a 'redundant agency'.

"Umm, ma'am? I got another message from Bragg..."

"What is it?"

"Charlie One's requesting clearance for, uh,... a money trace?"

The young man raised his eyes, clearly confused.

"Oh for the love of...", Six frowned. "...What is it now?"

…

* * *

Pope Army Air Field, Fort Bragg, North Carolina  
Hangar One

…

 _"_ … _erupted with gunshots and explosions, not long after SWAT officers stormed the bank a second time. We have no word as to the casualties from this_ … _bloody confrontation in Downtown, though some sources claim that at least seven from the LAPD have been killed. There are also rumors that the robbery was carried out by members of America's True Patriots, but the Mayor's Office has declined to comment until tomorrow's press conference_ … _"_

…

Everyone could hear the nightly news already playing inside. A few them looked on with tired eyes as the hangar's large, steel doors suddenly came to life, wheels grinding the pavement. More than a dozen pair of boots crossed the retracting threshold, men and women hoisting all sorts of bags and firearms. They had just returned from a lengthy trip. White fluorescent lamps welcomed them home, as Seamus led the pack into Rainbow's makeshift armory and staging area.

"You know the drill, everyone. Guns on that table, tools on the next…", he ordered. "…We'll have the debrief in an hour, so rest up."

It was standard procedure to return all equipment to the gun racks and storage lockers. But the response he got was silence. Ethan, still reeling from the journey and the mission, struggled not to mindlessly dump his belongings like an automaton. It would be an asshole-thing to do if he gave the armorer and quartermaster a hard time with his gear. Just then, he and his teammates were greeted by another batch of black-clad troopers, those who stayed and held the fort. They were all eager to give a helping hand and a good word or two, the basest forms of courtesy. One of these troopers was a tall blonde with a ponytail.

"Everyone made it, I see.", she opened in a distinct Saxony accent.

"Yeah sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness...", Emma greeted her with a smile while she set down her scoped 417. "...So how's your little project going?"

"Nothing yet, I'm afraid. I spent the whole day on the phone with Europol."

"Nothing? Huh… I expected a tidbit from you at this point. Color me disappointed…"

"Emmanuelle, reverse engineering a crude, remote-controlled chemical bomb is meticulous and time-consuming work.", she ranted. "You like to try it? I would love to see you take apart a _human-sized_ IED und memorize its components by heart!"

"Woah, okay… didn't mean that as an insult…"

Monika Weiss. Former Bundespolizei officer and GSG 9 engineer, a distinction she shared with the other German, Marius Streicher. Called 'IQ' on account of her genius brain and her custom wrist-mounted scanner. 'Ice Queen' was an equally apt monicker- she was a perfectionist and a stickler for efficiency, wrapped inside the body of a gorgeous woman nearing her forties. Not always the friendly type, but undoubtedly the brightest mind in the team. After the attack on Bartlett University, she was tasked with studying the dirty bombs left behind by the White Masks. If there was anyone who could devise a countermeasure against them, it was her. At least that's what the others claimed...

"I'll also appreciate it if you returned my soldering gun. It's still with you, _ja?"_

"Yeah… it's in my toolbox… somewhere…"

While the two women chatted away, Ethan sorted his kit as ordered. First he emptied his rifle and his sidearm, arranging their half-loaded mags side by side. Next, he took off the comms gear from its straps and added it to the pile. Then the grenades, the unspent magazines, the rappelling rope, and the trauma plate from his vest. Finally, the balaclava and the goggles, both of which still reeked with the stench of soot, smoke, and dried blood. He thought about peeling off from his black battledress as well. Alas, he was too tired to do it.

Almost everyone felt the same. The job was done, the adrenaline was gone, and their bodies paid the price for it. The quick dinner they ate during the flight was adequate. Yet, there was not that much sense of fulfillment in their hearts. Not a lot of celebration, except for Emma's brief smiles and bantering, even though everyone from Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie came home in one piece. It was obvious that the mission was still in their heads. The dismal attitude suggested that Team Rainbow was not at all used to 'operational failures'.

"Meghan, don't forget to stow that briefcase away in the depot…", Seamus spoke again. "…Have it marked and prepped for transit to Rotterdam, first thing in the mornin'."

"Yeah, just a sec. I still have to call this in with the boss lady. You do know we're skirting boundaries here, don't you?"

The ex-Navy SEAL pulled a cellphone from her back pocket and placed it on her ear. A quick round of barely-audible dialogue ensued, with Meghan asking clearance for the 'extra item' that the team brought with them. It was a steel money case, filled with almost half a million Euros, pinched from Prestige National Bank's vault before the cops could file it as evidence. Knowingly meddling with the LAPD's job made for shoddy work ethics, but Team Rainbow needed the unmarked cash to gather intel. Fausse's men were particularly interested in these bills during the heist, rather than the piles of dollars and gold bars that were laid bare to them. Why were they hoarding foreign currency? Were they funding operations in Europe as well? Their leader would have spilled the beans, if only he didn't catch a bullet to the head for his troubles. In any event, the European Police Office in The Netherlands could lend them a hand.

Ethan winced in his mind. The thought of that kill was still fresh. The moment before impact, the bone-crunching sound, the blood and gore spraying to his face. It caused his stomach to churn a bit in disgust, as he berated himself for being lily-livered all of a sudden. But it was nothing compared to the mission and how it ended. And he knew, deep inside, that it was his fault. At that moment, he just wanted to drop everything on the tables and head outside for air. Maybe find a nice and inconspicuous place for a cigarette. Maybe phone his daughter, ask her how she and her mother were doing... but that route would probably end as badly as last time.

Perhaps he should call Emily and ask for advice instead. Casual talk, not a single word about his new job. After all they've been through together... He wondered if she was still working at this hour.

 _Oh, fuck it._

It seemed he had to find a small measure of peace elsewhere. Perhaps the news show would distract him.

…

 _"But what are the people's feelings over there? Are they scared? Angry?"_

 _"_ … _'Alarmed' is a better term, I think... Everyone is still shocked that the incident happened in broad daylight, like in Cambridge almost a week ago... There's still plenty of tension here in Downtown and the rest of the city, but one thing's for sure. What happened at Prestige National this morning is far too close to home. It's got people riled up, and they're talking about the Global Security Summit, the EDDA, Bartlett_ … _This has been a massive wake-up call for everyone to remain vigilant at all times_ … _"_

 _"Thank you Danny. Before we continue folks, in other news: a dramatic turn of events in the search for the Aklark. A man caused quite a stir when he claimed to have evidence linking the Central Intelligence Agency with the luxury yacht's disappearance in the Atlantic over a month ago. Our correspondent in Charlottetown is there with the report..."_

…

Some of the Operators were huddled around the TV: the one source of entertainment in Hangar One. Ethan glimpsed at them while he leaned on the table to rest.

"How about it, Valk?" Miles Campbell called to the other blonde. "We made the headlines twice in five days. That's a new world record, ain't it?"

"*sigh* Yup. My old man will be soooo proud of me when I get back..."

"We're gonna be benchwarmers for a while, aren't we?", Jordan Trace butted in. "I'm sure Six is pissed that we got the HVT killed."

"Hey. Leave that for later, man. What's done is done. Let's just focus on what we can still do."

"Like what, Miles? We only have one goddamn name and a bunch of cash to work on."

The Texan's words were laced with vitriol and frustration. Ethan knew that they were directed at him, accusingly. After all, Fausse's death could have prevented if he acted rationally. If only the old man had been a few inches from the window, then he probably would not have been killed by the unknown shooter. But Ethan just had to hold the poor guy with an angry grip for a few seconds. All because of a name that he spouted, a name that the former Delta sniper thought he'd never hear again. 'Mohandes'. He let temper rule his actions. He kept Fausse perfectly still, a fish in the barrel, long enough for a kill shot from hundreds of yards away. Surely, there would be consequences from this.

"The name's enough, Jordan.", Meghan assured her colleague. "We'll get all hands on deck to find him. NSA, ONI, Interpol... hell even Baker's boys."

"I'm glad you're so optimistic."

"Trust me. If I ping my girls in Maryland tonight, they _should_ come up with a cross-reference tomorrow. Then we can work from there."

Ethan felt the need to correct them. He already told them what they needed to know about Mohandes. 'The Engineer', terrorist-for-hire, rogue chemist, and the principal target of Operation: Witch Hunt. Yet it seemed they couldn't grasp the gravity of the situation. This man didn't just possess a dangerous mind for brewing bargain-sale WMDs. He also had a lot of friends, some of which might well be out of Rainbow's league. The mercenaries who sprung him from Emily's custody all those months ago showcased their power and influence. And if someone as elusive as the White Masks had already taken Mohandes under their wing, then the bastard would be a lot harder to find. That made him even more dangerous.

'A reckoning is coming!', Leonard Fausse shouted right before his head was disintegrated by a sniper's bullet. Ethan had been replaying these words over and over before they boarded the flight home to Bragg. It was bothering, to say the least. The leader of America's True Patriots seemed very eager to sell his comrades out; it was quite out of character for a man of his infamy. But why did he warn Rainbow about Mohandes? Why was he convinced that his comrades intended to kill him? And why did he even bother to rob a bank in Downtown to begin with? Without anything else to go on, the questions left behind by the madman would be nothing more than ramblings, holding no water. Team Rainbow was back to grasping at straws, unfortunately.

Ethan had to say something.

"No, it won't be easy…", he blurted out. "…Fausse said that Mohandes is already using another name. _That_ is the one we need to look into."

All eyes turned to him, eager to listen to what he had to say. For a moment, he was startled that he suddenly became the center of attention. But while he was eager to say his piece, Meghan glared at him, angrily. Her fists were clenched. Her green eyes seemed hell-bent on flaying him alive on the spot. She walked up to his face to confront him.

"I didn't ask for _your_ opinion, Ethan! Don't forget that we're in this FUCKING MESS thanks to you!"

"Woah woah, take it easy.", Miles held her shoulder.

"Should I!?, she yelled back, brushing the hand aside. "We had Fausse in custody! WE HAD HIM! AND THIS IDIOT GOT HIM KILLED!"

Ethan tried to defend himself.

"Look, I didn't mean to-"

"DIDN'T MEAN TO!? So, you manhandling him was a fucking accident!?"

Just like that, the hangar was wrapped in a deafening silence. Emma gasped silently and covered her mouth as everyone else looked on with bated breath. Nobody wanted to intervene. Or rather everybody simply froze, having witnessed quite a startling whiplash from the normally cordial and professional intelligence officer. The tension prevailed for a few good seconds and a brawl seemed inevitable. Thankfully, the blonde woman was the first to step down, regaining her calm. The look on her face told everybody that she herself was startled by her own outburst.

" _Leftenant_ , pack that in!", Seamus spoke with a firm voice. "Stand down before ya regret it!"

She took a deep breath then turned away, to which Jordan approached and gave her a reassuring pat on the back. Nobody wanted to blame her, nor could they. No words were needed to say that she was right in voicing out her anger. Especially if the man she accused of the blunder also agreed. Having stopped a potential slugfest in the hangar, the hulking Scotsman approached the beleaguered recruit. Every soldier dreaded being shamed in front of their colleagues.

"You alright, mate?"

"Yes sir.", Ethan cleared his throat.

"Don't let her get to ya. She's just passionate, is all. All discipline and smarts, but she becomes a spitfire once somethin' gets in the way of her job..."

There was no argument there. Meghan's first and foremost role was to gather data and turn them into actionable intelligence that Rainbow could work with. Leonard Fausse was high up in the White Masks' chain of command and he most certainly had plenty of valuable information he would have shared. He could have been Meghan's prized stool pigeon. The man's death was understandably infuriating.

"...In your defense, that sniper was a bloody good shot. _None_ of us expected that, especially Meg."

"I don't blame her."

"But she's right, still. I didn't think yer composure's that fuckin' delicate...", the bald man crossed his arms. "This… 'Mohandes' fellow hit a nerve somewhere?"

Another round of silence. This was the second time that Ethan was put on the spot today, but he agreed that there was no escaping his actions. He let his mind drift for a while, vividly remembering that terrible day. He could still hear the torrent of gunshots and screams from the his sniping perch at the Border Control. He could still recall running from cover to cover, firing at the gunmen who killed cops and civilians indiscriminately to reach Mohandes. He could still remember the frantic radio calls, as his squad was overrun, one by one. He could never forget Gabe's calming words, just before he was obliterated by an IED. The shearing flesh, the burning shrapnel, the incredible amounts of pain...

These memories were seared into Ethan's mind and heart, perhaps forever. He held on to them as hard as he could, in memory of his friends and all the other lives lost that day. But perhaps he clung too tightly and he forgot to let go of the anger as well. And Rainbow paid the price for it.

"I know I screwed up, sir. It won't happen again."

"See to it, then! I don't want to pull ya out of the roster after one mission, but I _will_ if I have to."

The recruit nodded. He appreciated his leader's attempt to keep the peace and help everyone focused. This brief time working with the team, it quickly dawned on him that this merry band of warriors wouldn't just settle for anything less than a complete success. Rainbow saved dozens of lives today, but the mission was still a bust. Now, they needed to act on something, _anything_ , that would put them back on track.

"In the meantime, we need to find leads...", Seamus addressed everyone. "...If not, we'll be stuck to twidlin' our thumbs for a while. Any of you have bright ideas, you can share them in the debrief..."

"What about the money case?", Miles asked him.

"It'll go with Europol once we have the clearance. If the bills _did_ come from Europe, we'll let Baker and the others to follow the crumbs."

"Might I suggest something, sir?", Monika raised a hand. "I talked to Europol this afternoon. I believe they also know someone who could assist us..."

"Eh?"

"A drug suspect. Mr. Fausse called him earlier today, just before he vas arrested..."

The discussion continued, to which Ethan paid no heed as he breathed deeply to sort his feelings. Others were mumbling as well, all speculating what would happen in the meeting room later. It looked like every man and woman in the hangar had at least one idea they wanted to share, but no dice. As if none of their suggestions compared to the gold mine of intel they've could have gotten from Fausse. Unless someone could find a way to extract data from residual brain matter, Rainbow would have to go above and beyond their means to find a lead. The suitcase of Euros and a terrorist's nickname were both long shots. Yet, the hunt for the White Masks should not just stop with the death of one man.

Just then, Ethan had a eureka moment. There might be someone who could help them too. Emily. She was the one who led the mission against Mohandes, the brains behind Operation: Witch Hunt. While her efforts ended in failure, CIA Case Officer Jacobsen was the only other person who lived to tell the tale. She might know something that could help Rainbow get their bearings. Yes, the more Ethan thought about the idea, the more he liked it. However, there was a snag: this woman had been kicked from the Special Activities Division not too long ago, having received the proverbial foot in the ass. As a simple desk jockey, she no longer had proper access to the old intelligence files. She would have to pull plenty of strings to get them what they needed.

The recruit ignored the white noise around him as he contemplated in silence. Was it still worth calling his friend?

"...I can coordinate vith Europol to learn more.", Monika continued.

"Sure 'bout this, Weiss? Ya still have yer bomb research next door to sort out..."

"I can manage two jobs at once.", she proudly proclaimed, ever the overachiever.

"*sigh* If you say so. You'll have to bring this up with the old man later, yeah? I'd bet a hundred quid that we need his boys to pitch in."

"Consider it done. They've been itching for some action, last I heard."

"Wow! So eager!", Emma grinned at her. "I bet you're just looking for an excuse to talk to your boyfriend again!"

The teasing brought out a brief round of laughs from the guys, much to the Scotsman's annoyance. It was probably an inside joke; Ethan wondered what it meant. As for the German lady, she became a little flustered and incredibly annoyed, living up to her other name. She glared at the short, brown-haired girl.

" _Arschgesicht_." ("Assface.")

Ethan smiled at the lighthearted banter; it kept him from dwelling on his own shortcomings even further. After this day, it was almost certain that he wouldn't be going out in the field anytime soon. He needed to make amends. He needed to prove his worth again, that Rainbow wasn't mistaken by welcoming him into the fold. The night ended with his head filled with regret and hope.

…

* * *

 _Cuerpo Nacional de Policía_ (CNP) Headquarters, Madrid, Spain  
0805 hours (CET)

Day Five

…

Today would have been a vacation, but current events begged to differ. Everyone in the visitors' lobby felt like they just watched a movie, unfolding in real life. A bank heist gone wrong, a massive gunfight, dozens of cops… The entire incident could pass off as a summer action flick, if given the proper production value. That this spectacle took place in the same city as Hollywood didn't escape their minds; it was a bit of bitter coincidence.

…

 _"But what are the people's feelings over there? Are they scared? Angry?"_

 _"_ … _'Alarmed' is a better term, I think... Everyone is still shocked that the incident happened in broad daylight, like in Cambridge almost a week ago... There's still plenty of tension here in Downtown and the rest of the city, but one thing's for sure. What happened at Prestige National this morning is far too close to home. It's got people riled up, and they're talking about the Global Security Summit, the EDDA, Bartlett_ … _This has been a massive wake-up call for everyone to remain vigilant at all times_ … _"_

…

The wall-mounted TV played a looping, bird's eye footage of 'Downtown, Los Angeles' while the American newscaster droned on. Spanish subtitles at the bottom of the screen helped make sense of it all, keeping the locals in the same page. The camera showed pockets of smoke billowing from the building's shattered windows. Scorch marks dotting the bright marble skin. Even from high above, the entire block looked like a war-zone. However, the timestamp on the vid told everyone that this story was already a couple of days out of date. Much had happened in the city since then.

Unbeknownst to the visitors, they were sharing the lobby with two men who were actually in the know. One was a 41-year-old German with shaggy hair and a scruffy chin, and a high-level security clearance pinned to his jacket. He used to be a cop. Dangerous, ingenious, and a string of counter-terror operations under his belt. He quitted his job a few months ago for a more lucrative full-time job, earning him much more than he ever did as a cop on the beat. His credentials would describe a badass persona, yet in truth he was an unassuming and nondescript guy. Sure, he had the tats and the odd scars here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. He reveled in this anonymity: a sheepdog among the sheep, a self-styled spy wearing a generic face.

He rested his feet on top of a dark duffel bag near the bench.

"You could do that on the way home, you know?", he told his seatmate, who was preoccupied with a folder of papers. "You'll ruin your eyes with too much reading and studying…"

"I don't recall asking you for health tips, sir... Piss off.", he rudely replied. His distinct English accent immediately caught the ear of a few strangers.

The young man donned a collared shirt and tie, plus a pair of dark slacks and shoes. He had a more professional look, in contrast to the older gent's street-casual getup with the torn denims and cheap sneakers. The lad's reading material was actually an intelligence report, several pages long, seemingly collated from various sources. It had a lot of eye-catching names and terms that only a law enforcement or military person would immediately recognize. The German wanted to remind his colleague what a bad idea it was to bring classified documents in a public place, but he insisted on working on the fly. Well, if he was keen on digging his own grave...

There was a name that stuck out like a sore thumb, however. 'MSWiA'. The Ministry of Interior and Administration. It was an agency based in Warsaw.

"Poland?", the German whispered.

"Yup. Their Prime Minister is also interested in Bartlett. She thinks that a similar attack will happen in Krakow."

"Really now?"

"Tch. Hogwash, is what it is. The chatter there's been silent for months. I bet the psychos already cancelled their plans for Poland."

"And the White Masks were targeting them... because?"

"Ey, don't say that name out loud!", the young man shot him down. "…Nobody knows why, alright? GROM deployed a team anyway, just in case. They may've sent one of our 'prospects'..."

"Oh? Is it the hothead with the better ass than-"

"Shut it."

The older man snickered. Antics aside, he was genuinely pleased at the knowledge that fresh talent was still on the way. It was a nice change from the monotony of meeting the same faces, doing the same drills, facing the same risks… He feared about being bored out of his skull, like what his stint in Border Security almost did to him. Besides, more manpower was always good. His job was about to get tougher thanks to current events. If anything else, more newbloods would mean more hands he could ask to do the drudgery. Assuming their numbers would continue to swell, the team needed to come up with a new initiation rite soon. The 'electric foot therapy' was getting dull, and the German didn't even get to try it on the last batch of newbies.

But first things first. This trip to Spain had a specific purpose in mind. They needed to meet with their contact. They had explicit orders to extract as much intel as possible, by any means necessary. It was another day in the office, in other words. The real vacation would have to come another time.

" _Señor_ Chandar…", a man called.

Immediately, the two foreigners immediately turned to their right. There was a tall fellow, with slick black hair and a fine stubble, walking towards them from the reception area. He was clad in the dark overalls of the National Police Corps' special forces, walking proud and confidently like his dossier said. The duo already knew who he was.

"… _Buenos Dias_. Welcome to Madrid.", Ryad Ramirez shook hands with Mark.

"Likewise, Mr. Ramirez. We spoke over the phone. Thank you for having us at such… short notice."

"Hah! Everything for my future employers…"

The man they exchanged pleasantries with was another one of the 'prospects' that the lad talked about. Ryad Ramirez Al-Hassar. Point man and assault specialist for the CNP. His colleagues also called him _El_ _Chacal_ , or 'The Jackal', for his tenacity and ruthless determination in rooting out suspects. An insomniac with a troubled family life, he was one of the weirder ones that the Director wanted on the payroll, for some reason. Then again, when was the last time that the team refused a misfit from their ranks?

Today wasn't a job interview, however. A couple of days ago, this man led an audacious nighttime raid in Ibiza to arrest a player in the local drug trade. Ramirez pulled the mission off with zero civilian casualties; no easy feat by itself since the island was packed with partygoers at the time. More importantly, the perp that he had taken into custody was a well-connected scumbag. Smugglers, dealers, counterfeiters. Thanks to recent events, 'international terrorists' would be added to that list. Terrorists like Leonard Fausse.

Time was scarce.

"…So, who is your friend here?"

The German stepped forward and offered his hand.

"Dominic Brunsmeier. We are here for your prisoner, Mr. Priego."

He brought everything he needed for today. Pliers, electric cables, a car battery, all stuffed into the duffel bag. One way or another, the poor bastard in the holding cell downstairs was going to talk.

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** Despite being shorter and less action-y than the last one, this chapter took me longer than it should've, so apologies. Due to popular demand, I'll be showcasing our favorite drug dealer next. I wasn't able to write a Bandit chapter for my 'Behind the Mask' story, so this is my way of making it up to the readers who requested for it. Expect him to play a more active role in later chapters. :)


	8. Chapter 7 - Cloak and Dagger

.

* * *

 **Chapter Seven – "Cloak and Dagger"**

* * *

…

"So where's the other one, sir?", Mark asked their guide. "We didn't bump into her in the lobby."

"Mira? Oh, she's at her 'personal office' in the garage…", Ramirez pointed behind with his right thumb. "…I'm afraid she has her hands full this morning."

"Busy day, I take it?"

"A bit. Our armored car was roughed up in that little adventure in Ibiza. Two damaged headlights, a wrecked bumper, some scratches on the paint…"

The small talk among the three men had been going on for a few minutes. Their voices rang as they walked along the drab corridor, lined with a few paintings and pot plants. They'd passed by more than a dozen pencilpushers by now, all minding their own business. The apathy might have something to do with the security clearance pinned on the two foreigners' clothes.

"Ah, right. I read the report.", Mark continued. "You ram-raided The White Pearl, yeah? Quite a flashy entrance you did."

"It was crude, really. We needed a loud distraction. Everyone in the club was either drunk or high as a kite, not to mention the damn disco music…"

The tall Spaniard was referring to the GEO's raid of La Perla Blanca from a couple of nights ago. It made the headlines in Madrid and beyond, even reaching as far as Hereford. Strangely it fell on deaf ears in America, though to be fair, the Yanks wouldn't care much for a random drug bust across the pond. Not while they had their own problems to deal with. Thankfully, Rainbow's band of misfits in that country was kept in the loop. They believed that the recent attacks in US soil were linked to the recent uptick of high-profile crimes in Europe.

As Monika described it, the White Masks might have used foreign criminal ventures to help fund their operations at home. For instance, they dabbled in the international narcotics trade through Leonard Fausse and his European contacts. When they lost their drug money in Spain, they robbed a bank in Los Angeles in a foolish attempt to recoup their losses. And whoever this 'Mohandes' character was, they now had the means to enter into the chemical weapons business as well. Dominic and Mark flew to Spain to see if one particular prisoner would lend credence to this theory.

"…Priego has been a pain. In the meantime, Mira has to work two shifts just to fix the car. But she loves playing mechanic, so she's not complaining."

"I'm impressed you pulled it off.", the German praised. "We probably would use the same tactic, if we'd been there."

"Don't fool yourself, Brunsmeier.", Mark chided. "The Army will never lend us a rover for that. Let alone an IFV. Tossers…"

"Of course they'll refuse, with that attitude of yours… Maybe that is why the old man sent you here, instead of Jack. Or _Fräulein-_ Skullface."

"You rather have _that girl_ do the talking? Are you mental?!"

Dominic laughed at his companion's little rant. Mark 'Mute' Chandar was always too smart for his own good. A prodigy from the University of Cambridge, the 25-year-old engineer also used to man the wiretaps run by the GCHQ. He was not a 'soldier' per se, but he was seconded to the Special Air Service thanks to his expertise in electronic signal disruption. When Baker and his boys came aboard, they roped Markie along as Team Rainbow's SIGINT tech and intelligence staffer. He had become a lot more hands-on with his job recently, no thanks to Meghan's reassignment to the US.

After climbing down a staircase, the group reached the security gate to the underground holding cells. The place was locked down tight: surveillance cameras, trip alarms, and perhaps more than ten cops packing G36s. Ramirez had a quick chat with the young desk officer, who most certainly wasn't expecting company at so early in the morning, before he turned around to give his visitors a reassuring nod. They crossed the gate without being frisked. Even when the black duffel bag caused the metal detector to sing, the guards didn't stop them on their tracks. Their destination laid just beyond: a grey stainless steel door, among the myriads that ran parallel along the dreary hallway.

The room was labeled ' _Interrogatorio_ ' in white letters.

"Here we are, my friends.", Ramirez announced. "We already have your man inside."

" _Danke schön_.", Dominic politely thanked him, smiling. "Do you mind if we borrow you in there? We can use more hands."

The GEO officer replied with a serious, soul-piercing glare. Such a gesture spoke a thousand words, as if he suddenly regretted bringing them to the basement. Nonetheless, he opened the door and went inside. His visitors followed him.

The Interrogation Room was brightly-lit, cream-colored, and rather bland, in stark contrast to the path that preceded it. There were no furniture, save for a table and a chair with a lone occupant. The walls and ceiling were lined with sound-absorbent material, probably to muffle any shouting that usually came from this room. One of the walls had a one-way mirror, a large pane of dark glass that was connected to the room next door. Looking above, there was also a camera mounted in one of the corners. A pretty impressive setup overall, but Rainbow didn't come here to gawk at the gallows.

" _Oye, despierta._ (Hey, wake up.)", Ramirez shook the prisoner on the chair.

There sat the worn-out, weary figure of a mustached man with messy hair, held by handcuffs. Middle-aged, dark hair, tan skin. He looked filthy under his summer shirt and bottoms, which also accentuated his plump belly. His left shoulder was wrapped in bandages, splattered with reddish stains: a gunshot wound. The prisoner looked up with tired eyes, visibly unhappy to see the grinning mug of his captor. He then turned his gaze to the two other fellows standing in front, separated from him only by a couple feet of space. A slick guy in a collared shirt and a scruffy fellow donning a leather jacket. Foreigners. It's clear from his face that he was both puzzled and unnerved by their presence.

"Good morning, Mr. Priego. We're from Europol.", Mark lied through his teeth. "We're here to help the National Police with their case."

A few seconds of dead air. Priego's eyes scanned to either side, as if he was looking for an escape route. A fight-or-flight response, as Dominic quietly observed. He'd seen the same thing in the eyes of the scumbags he had put behind bars. And just like with those perps, today's opening dialogue between the cops and crooks was kicked off on a high note. The drug dealer spouted a clichéd line.

" _No hablo inglés_ … (I don't speak English…)"

Ramirez chuckled. His guests got the message fairly quickly.

"Really? Our reports tell otherwise. They say you've been chumming with the Yanks. Hard to do that if you 'no hablo inglés'."

Mark's words were translated by his Spanish guide for the stubborn fool's benefit. Priego was obviously lying, but the interrogators played along anyway, at least for the most part. If only he rewarded the courtesy with an honest answer.

" _Yo no sé nada._ (I don't know anything)."

"You pay good money. They supply good product.", the young man continued. "A mutually beneficial relationship, innit? Did you know you were working with terrorists?"

" _!No sé nada!"_

"Leonard Fausse. The American. Anyone else do business with him? Did you also talk shop with these 'friends' of his?"

 _"!Vete al carajo_ (Go fuck yourself), _gringo! !Yo no sé nada!"_

The man was defiant, spouting three disappointing answers in a row. Dominic let out a quick snicker. Ramirez, on the other hand, sighed to himself and motioned to the mirror- whoever was on the other side could probably empathize with their frustration. Drastic measures would be needed soon and their patience was about to be tested.

The ex-GSG 9 had other ideas, however. Unlike his partner, he already anticipated this kind of resistance. There was no way that a perp like Priego would readily spill the beans. If the police special forces didn't break him, then 'two cops from Europol' wouldn't make much of a difference. And besides, Dominic had already set his mind to 'Plan B' from the very beginning. Rather than think about appeasing to the prisoner's sensibilities, he immediately juggled numbers in his head. How many cables would be needed? How much juice should be extracted from the battery? How long should he press the clamps onto Priego's skin? The answers were elusive, but they inspired a lot of creativity.

"I know what you're thinking, mate...", Mark spoke, interrupting his contemplations. "...We don't need the wires."

"Hah! Sure... keep telling that to yourself."

Dominic walked away, duffel bag in tow. The questioning continued in the background while he hummed a singsong tune to himself, nonchalantly. Crouching, he pulled out a pair of rubber gloves from his jacket pockets and worn them over his hands. Then, he opened the contents of the bag, carefully hiding them from Priego's wandering eyes. Jumper cables, pliers, a copper box, a handheld tazer, and a 12-volt lead-acid power source. The essential ingredients of a Crude Electric Device.

It was strange that despite Team Rainbow's collective hard-on for state-of-the-art equipment, a jury-rigged shock machine was still a crucial part of their arsenal. The CED-1 was neither fancy nor high-tech, but it could always serve its purpose well. A home defense system, a backup car battery, a toy for initiating new recruits, or, in this case, a tool for forcing prisoners to sing. Today was as good a time as any to demonstrate the device. The German went on to assemble it, using the same care and attention he would on his roadster back in Berlin. In the meantime, he kept his ears peeled for anything that the interrogation might reveal.

Alas, the dialogue between Mark and Priego started to heat up instead. Tempers were just about to flare.

"...Why don't you bloody talk!? Fausse is dead, you hear me!?", the young Englishman raised his voice. "His men are dead! The courts are gonna pin their crimes _on you_ unless you cooperate!"

The prisoner continued his resistance, unsurprisingly. But rather than speak another lie through his lips, he gurgled his saliva and spat at the interrogator's shirt. Mark recoiled in disgust. He was startled by the stain, but then he turned his face into a scowl. Before he could throw a punch, Ramirez restrained his arm, preventing a scuffle. The veteran officer proved to be an effective foil, quickly to think on his feet.

" _Señor_ Chandar...", he commented. "... _Cálmate. No te enojes._ (Calm down. Don't get angry.) We'll be here all day if you use violence."

"Tch. Get off me!"

"You've had your chance.", Dominic announced. "Now it's my turn."

He returned to his companions with a CED-1, held by his gloves. Emotions inside the room suddenly fluctuated, ranging from fear to bewilderment. Undeterred, the scruffy man set his device down, grabbed the jumper cables, and flipped the switch. The distinct crackles of electricity buzzed for everyone to hear, 12 volts of power running through the circuits and into the wires. Priego was startled by the brief lightshow. His eyes were filled with terror and he began to squirm in his seat, whimpering like a child. It was a positive response as far as the German was concerned; he brought the wires closer to the prisoner's skin.

"GAH!", he squealed. " _¡No! ¡Por favor!_ (Please!) _¡POR FAVOR!_ "

Finally, the sounds of defeat. Right then and there, Dominic knew he earned his pay today.

"Just answer the questions, _ja_? My gloves are slippery."

He faked spasms in his wrists, threatening the poor man with a quick shock therapy if he wasn't careful. It made for a brief moment of fun. At the back of Dominic's mind, however, he wanted to go all the way. He wanted to dispense some overdue payback for all the lives that this fucking junkie had ruined. As strange and callous as it sounds, he didn't care if Priego might die from it.

"OKAY! I'll talk! I'll talk!"

The sniveling brought smiles to the interrogators' faces. Now they were getting somewhere.

" _Das ist gut_ (That's good). Let's start over, okay? Give us a name... and maybe we will not place these on your nipples."

…

* * *

Rainbow Fun Land, Lantau Island, Hong Kong  
1432 Hours

At the same time.

…

彩虹遊樂園

The large, red characters on the gate were worn out and broken, but they spelled a phrase when put together correctly. 'Rainbow Fun Land'. The 34-acre theme park used to be one of Hong Kong's most famous tourist spots. It enjoyed much prestige in the 70s, judging by the old postcards and memorabilia. Unfortunately, it was shut down in '97 to make way for an ambitious housing project after the Handover to China. To feed the needs of a growing city. When that plan fell through, so did any hopes of reopening the place for a 21st Century-crowd.

Over time, it became a haunt for all sorts of unpleasant folk. Cultists, drug dealers, Triad thugs. Why wouldn't it be? It was secluded, quite a distance away from the Mainland, and it was surrounded by trees and mountains to ward off trespassers. The place sucked balls in its current state, to use the vernacular. Everything and everywhere had pests, dust, damp moss, or a combination of the three. Ironically, there was nothing much to do in the abandoned theme park either, except to stare blankly into the old attractions and chase away the occasional hobo and fauna. The arcade machines were not interesting. On the flipside, the place had running electricity and clean water, which was more than could be said to Baghdad International in 2003.

GROM Operative 'Ela' Bosak had only been here for three days, posing as a guard with a few other foreign thugs. 'Guard' might be too generous a word, however. She didn't do any patrols nor did she man any searchlights; she simply squatted at her post at the entrance gate just like yesterday. She figured that this afternoon was going to be another slow one. The calm before the storm. But her hopes for a dull few hours were dashed when her headset rang.

"Kazi, I need you back at my office. Right now."

She grimaced in her mind. It was Mr. Goh, her boss.

"I'm on my way, sir."

Ever since her squadron sent her here, she had been itching for a chance to ventilate him. She had no choice but to follow his orders: she was 'Kazimiera Koziol', a foreign mercenary leased to the Triads. A _gweilo_ , as some of the bastards here started calling her. So far, nobody was smart enough to realize she was actually using the maiden name of one of GROM's first female operatives. Still, she didn't know how long she could keep up with this charade.

 _Courage is strength, little girl. Courage, always._

She recalled her late father's words of wisdom to let her blood simmer down. She survived three wars thus far; another undercover mission wouldn't be too difficult for her. With a resigned sigh, she tightened her harnesses and checked the reticle of her RG-15 handgun. Today, she donned a green tanktop, a tac-vest, and a pair of khaki jeans- a reasonable attire for the humid climate in this part of the world. A baseball cap kept her dyed bob cut from interfering with her vision. Then, she took one last good look of the beautiful skyline before she headed out. It was picturesque despite the afternoon haze, with the tall skyscrapers masking the sun. Jan Bosak would've loved the view if he was with her right now.

He would like it better if she focused on her work, she thought. After quickly checking that the coast was clear, her deft hands toggled the dial on her radio and changed its frequency. It was time to check on her backup.

"Team A, this is Ela... Team A, do you hear me?"

"We hear you Ela.", HKPF Officer Siu Mei Lin replied.

"Ying, the target is calling me back inside. Confirm you have a visual on me?"

"Drones have confirmed visual. We've got the entire park surrounded. Awaiting your word to move in."

Ela smiled. The Special Duties Unit had sent their best professionals for this operation. Team Leader 'Ying' Siu normally thrived in hostage rescue and VIP jobs, but she could also lead a tactical assault mission in a pinch. The same was true with the rest of her team, all experts in close quarters combat and high-profile arrests. Nobody could expect anything less from the men and women trained by the famed British SAS.

"Good. I'll be going dark from here on out. Maintain radio silence until my signal."

The green-haired mercenary checked if her 'Grzmot' concussion mine was in order; it was her single lifeline should things go south.

"Solid copy, Ela. Are you sure you don't need sniper support?"

"It's too risky. Besides, I'm better off on my own anyway."

"If you say so. _Zhu ni haoyun._ (Good luck to you.)"

With that, she toggled her radio again, returning it to the previous frequency.

Since the attack on Bartlett University, Europe became paranoid that a similar massacre would occur within its borders. Nobody overreacted better than the Polish Interior Ministry, who had reason to believe that certain fanatics were plotting to strike at one of Krakow's academic institutions. Their clamoring led to GROM-ZBC's deployment to Asia, where they aimed their crosshairs at Mr. Danny Goh. This man, as Ela discovered over a short time, had a history of helping terrorists smuggle their stuff through international ports. The Triads usually had people working as dockworkers. She was ordered to get close to him and steal his business documents as proof. But it was her idea to coordinate with the Hong Kong Police Force for a raid; she would use the resulting chaos to accomplish her objective and slip away. Ultimately she was on her own, but she relished the challenge.

A quick look on the wristwatch told Ela that there was time to spare, so she loitered for a bit. The purpose was two-fold: to reconnoiter the place and to make sure that the HKPF was well-hidden from the guards' line of sight. But really, it was also an excuse for her to relive Rainbow Fun Land's former glory, to imagine it in its heyday. Tiger mascots used to man the ticket booths. The gift shops likely peddled their wares to feisty kids before and after every ride. The Ferris wheel was a favorite among couples, since it gave them a breathtaking, scenic view of Hong Kong City from afar. Visiting this place was likely a once in a lifetime opportunity for most people back in the day. Now, nothing but junk and rust remained.

The door to the arcade parlor was such an example.

*knock knock*

Ela was welcomed by a bald, tattooed thug with an MP5, who smiled at her leeringly. She couldn't recall his name.

"Hey there, Kazi. Going somewhere?"

The Cantonese accent was followed by a quick lick of the lips. Disgusted, the Polish woman flipped him the bird and went on her way, while the creep laughed behind her. She didn't want to dally any further, lest her boss would grow suspicious. The path to his office floor was also filled with the theme park's old attractions, refurbished to suit the needs of a criminal organization. One of the arcade sections had been into a drug lab. The old day care center at the second floor had become a storage depot. The derelict tram system was turned into a makeshift security gate, with Triad guards using electronic scanners to frisk anyone for 'toys'. Ela couldn't stand their presence, so she made haste to reach the office next door. This time, she didn't bother with the knocking.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Shhh."

The man behind the desk raised a hand, motioning her to shut up, while he entertained a cellphone to his ear. Wearing a low-cut sleeveless shirt, he had intricate tats that showed all sorts of animals and floral patterns. The foreigner found no meaning on them, but they telegraphed this man's importance and prestige. If not, then the presence of two burly guards with automatic weapons would erase any doubts.

Goh Daoming, better known as 'Danny Goh'. The SDU pegged him as a 'procurement specialist' from Mong Kok. Shrewd, cunning, and very greedy. While primarily working as a Triad 'white paper fan', or administrator, the 41-year-old was still a businessman first and foremost. He made deals with almost everyone, got his hands on almost anything, so long as the price was right. Conflict diamonds from Sierra Leone, high-caliber weapons from Ukraine, Santa Blanca cocaine from Bolivia. His inventory gave him a serious rep and an elite clientele. Despite all that, he wasn't infallible. His recent deal with American terrorists ended up biting him in the ass and attracted the attention of the HKPF. The cops learned that one of the shipping containers he used to smuggle chemical weapons had come from Victoria Harbour.

"Good afternoon.", another female voice greeted.

Ela suddenly darted her head to the left. She was so focused on eyeing her 'boss' that she did not recognize the other guest in the office. Sitting on the worn-out couch was a brown-haired Caucasian woman, wearing a biege shirt, sunglasses, and a pair of black jeans. She had a briefcase with her, just on the floor beside her boots. She was probably another 'entrepreneur' looking to cut a deal with the Triads, or was simply a dolled-up messenger. Wearing a friendly smile, the woman exchanged stares with the undercover commando; tinted black lenses meeting face-to-face with grey eyes. They were sizing each other up, right on the spot.

 _Who is she?_

*Slam!*

"Fuck you too!", Mr. Goh cursed as he tossed his cellphone into the wall.

"Aww, what's wrong?", the other woman spoke to him. She seemed to have an American accent. "Your boss tell you he pissed on your breakfast this morning?"

" _Dai Lo_ (Big Brother) Chang wants me back to Shanghai tomorrow morning. He said I placed a bull's-eye on him! "

"Hahaha! Just tell him you didn't know that Leonard Fausse was a terrorist. You're not the first honest businessman who made that mistake..."

Mr. Goh took a deep breath and reclined on his seat. He seemed deeply troubled by his talk over the phone. He didn't know squat; he was sharing his office with one of Poland's best soldiers, hell-bent on bringing him down and watching him burn. All because he colluded with psychopaths who expressed a desire to attack her fatherland. She didn't care if her mission of subterfuge went a tad too far.

"By the way, this is the girl I was talking about.", he introduced his newest guard. "This is Kazi Koziol. She fought in Iraq."

Hearing her cue, Ela raised the tip of her cap as a greeting, maintaining the façade of a stoic mercenary. Unlike the rest of the guards, she didn't carry an automatic weapon, as it was the preserve of the Triad's 'true soldiers'. Besides, in practice these bastards only paid her to look tough and pretty.

"One of Chang's trophies, huh? She's cute."

" _Kě bushì ma!_ (You can say that again!) She's only been here for a few days, but I like her already!"

Ela didn't know if she should be flattered or not. Perhaps if she had lesser morals and the mind of a cheap-ass floozy, then she would've worn that compliment as a badge of honor. All she knew was that her boss was already stroking his ego like he would his dick. But rather than dwell on their 'praise', the Polish commando simply took up her position beside the Triad boss, like the good lackey she pretended to be.

Her identity was actually quite close to the real deal; some semblance of truth would always be necessary for any deception to work. Like 'Kazi', she spent three years in Baghdad and another four in the north. Well-versed in private security, VIP protection, and anti-insurgency operations. The Interior Ministry went through great lengths to provide her with the right documents to match her masquerade. And it took a whole lot more just to get her name noticed by recruiters from Asia's criminal underworld.

She pressed a button on her wristwatch. This activated the voice recorder.

"Can we talk business, Mr. Goh?", the other woman asked. "I'm short on time."

"Oh, please. What's there to talk about? I've supplied Adam with the parts that he needs. And the weapons are already en route to Oregon..."

"And I'm sure he's grateful for that."

"So what's wrong? I've done what he and Caleb hired me for."

The answer didn't impress the mystery guest. Rather than indulge him with more chatting, she brought up the steel briefcase on the floor and opened it. To everyone's mild surprise, the case contained stacks upon stacks of Euros. A quick estimate placed the sum to about a hundred thousand, likely more.

"I hope this is enough to loosen your tongue.", she continued. "Who told you about the attack on Freedom Day?"

Danny Goh looked like he was daydreaming, from the look of his smile. It took a whole five seconds for his puny mind to digest what his visitor had just asked of him. At that moment, his grin turned into a gasp and his eyes widened. His shoulders became stiff, his body became even more tense. Ela found this reaction quite odd. But she pretended to have deaf ears and paid it no heed.

"Woahwoahwoah, hold on... I think I know where this is going. I am not a rat.", he suddenly became defensive.

"I'm not implying anything, sir. Just asking a simple question."

"Nobody else knows, alright! I didn't talk to anyone! Not to Dai Lo Chang, not to Hong Kong or Shanghai!"

"Oh? Then why is the CIA hearing chatter about a joint task group between Poland, Korea, and the Hong Kong Police? Seems like your deal with Adam was not as hush-hush as you thought..."

Ela felt her heart skip a beat when she heard that revelation. How the hell did that woman know about that arrangement? The commando did her damnedest not to look startled. Instinctively, she rested her right hand near her hip holster, ready to draw the RG-15 at a moment's notice. Deep inside, she began to wonder if the guest was astute enough to see through her guise as well. The prospect of being compromised slowly became a distinct possibility.

All pretense of a friendly chat slowly faded away. The man on the desk clasped his hands and looked at the brunette lady with caution. The two guards in the room tightened the grips on their rifles, as if they were waiting for the order to shoot her. She, meanwhile, maintained an air of confidence while a smug smile remained on her face. She was... unusually calm. She was very different. Very confident. The GROM operative read her body language as best she could. A part of her wanted to call Officer Siu and tell the SDU to stand down. The situation had suddenly changed.

 _Just who the hell is this woman?_

"Kazi, put this with the rest of the stuff...", Mr. Goh pointed at the briefcase.

Ela did as she was told, reluctantly so. She carried the item and went next door, past the old bathroom that connected her boss's office with the money stash. Like an obedient servant, she started removing the wads of cash from the case and arranging them neatly in rows. Upon closer inspection, they were in denominations of 100, fresh from the mint. They blended well with the other blocks of money that lined the cabinets in the room. Admittedly, even a seasoned counter-terrorist operative like herself was impressed by this treasure trove. There was probably enough cash in this room to buy the theme park and refurbish it for a grand reopening.

A part of her wanted to pocket some of the bills, simply for the thrill it; she was never really above her base desires. If she was as good as when she was eighteen, she could probably tuck a couple thousand into her pockets, with none the wiser. But she knew her father would never approve such juvenile behavior. She knew better than to tarnish GROM's reputation and honor.

And that's exactly what was on the line with this mission. This was the first time in a long while that her squadron had conducted an undercover mission in Asia. It was their first joint operation with the Hong Kong Police. Ela had not encountered any snags so far, so it would be a massive shame on her unit if she messed it up. She needed to focus on her job; part of that was ensuring Goh and his guest wouldn't start a shouting contest in his office. For the Triads, these things usually end with bullet holes and corpses. She needed to sort out the briefcase as quickly as she could.

With the last wad of cash properly arranged, she closed the briefcase and made her way out. It was time to return to her post...

...

 _Holy shit!_

Her jaw dropped. Mr. Goh was slouched in his chair, completely motionless. His arms were limp. There was a reddish stream in his forehead and his eyes were rolled back. His guards, similarly, were crumpled on the floor, lying on puddles of red. The office had the unmistakable smell of gunpowder. There were no signs of a struggle.

The brown-haired woman was nowhere to be found.

" _O mój Boże_ (Oh my God)..."

'Kazi' or Ela, the reaction was the same. Her brain quickly went into a heightened state of alertness. She drew her pistol, pulled the slide, and peered into the micro-reflex sight. She began searching for targets: to her right, to her left, behind her. It felt like she just walked into a trap. Her years as a mercenary started taking over her instincts as she began looking for muzzles, barrels, and laser sights. A gun might be pointing at her from any angle. Luckily, it seemed she was the only one alive in the room.

She juggle a lot of cusswords in her head. This was not good. She didn't bother to check the bodies for a pulse; she knew a corpse when she saw one. But the tang of smoke and cordite nagged her to no end. It looked like a suppressed firearm was used to kill these men. GROM neither had standing orders to kill nor to protect Danny Goh, but their SDU allies wanted him alive.

"Team A. Do you read?"

"..."

"Dammit, Team A! This is Ela! Please respond!"

"This is Ying.", Office Siu finally whispered back. "What's going on? I thought you were-"

"Ying... The target is dead... I repeat, Danny Goh is dead..."

"What the hell?", she heard the cop's exasperation. "W-what happened?! How!?"

"I don't know! He had a guest and she-"

Before Ela could explain herself further, she heard footsteps come up to the door. Her eyes turned too late; there she saw a tattooed Triad thug, gawking at her. His narrow eyes went wide when he stumbled across the grizzly scene. Three men lying dead, blood everywhere, and a lone Caucasian woman standing in the middle of it all with her weapon up.

"Boss...?", he muttered.

Of course, the dead guy didn't speak back. And all the henchman saw was the foreign mercenary staring back at him in surprise. Unfortunately for her, he was not the smartest tool in the shed. 'She did this!' was probably the thought that prevailed his little mind. And naturally, his look of shock turned into the face of a killer. He gritted his teeth and raised his assault rifle. His lips formed the Triad's words for 'traitor'.

Ela did what she thought was the most sensible thing to do. She pulled the trigger once. The 9x19 mm projectile found its way to the thug's heart. He gasped and fell down dead, but his finger was still on the trigger. The rifle let out several shots before it jammed, loud enough for everyone in the theme park to hear. Especially the SDU Team Leader, who was listening over at the airwaves.

"What was that!?"

"Go loud! GO LOUD NOW! MY COVER IS BLOWN!"

Her shouting was not the signal that neither of them had in mind. Not long after she called for help, the distinct reports of Kalashnikovs and M16 rifles broke out in the distance. Then an alarm was raised, the same one used to signal visitors to evacuate Rainbow Fun Land back in the day. The message was still the same.

Ela knew there was no time for her to process the quick, violent turn of events. She still had a mission to accomplish. Taking a page from GROM's counter-insurgency handbook, she took out her Grzmot mine and pulled the pin. The mine's sticky adhesive began to foam, resembling a stick of cotton candy. When the ooze was fully set, she tossed the device into the hallway. The mine's proximity sensor let out a solid click, indicating that it was now armed. Anyone who barged into the office would have their brains rattled by a powerful sonic blast.

With her lifeline secured, she turned to the vault behind Mr. Goh's desk. Naturally, the large metal box was locked. Thinking on her feet, the Polish woman frisked the corpse of her boss. She found the key in the back pocket of his trousers. Then, she unlocked the vault and scanned its contents. It was filled to the brim with documents, folders, and bricks of cash. There was no time to sift through all of them, she thought. And there was no way to carry them all on her person either, so she grabbed one of the empty duffel bags in the money stash next door.

She made her way out of the office in less than a minute, with a bagful of papers at her back. With her disguise compromised, now would be the best time to escape. She grabbed her Grzmot mine and returned the pin. Thanks to the IFF beacon on her wristwatch, the mine didn't tag her as an enemy.

"Ela!", Officer Siu radioed her again. "Team B has placed mines all over the perimeter! Watch your step!"

The green-haired lady suddenly stopped on her tracks.

"What!? Say again?"

"Mines are deployed all over the perimeter! Do you copy?"

"Oh, that's fantastic! Thanks for the warning, _ty skurwysyny_ (you motherfuckers)!"

Knowing the SDU, they likely deployed non-lethal devices to incapacitate those attempting to flee the scene. Somehow, it didn't dawn on them that their Polish friend might get hurt as well. But she could voice her complaints later. From the second floor office, she made her way down the nearest staircase, checking her corners. The ground floor in this part of the arcade parlor contained the Haunted House attraction; grey, spooky, and ominous even at its rundown state. While animatronics and cheap scares didn't bother her, the battle raging everywhere caused her heart to pound harder than ever. She was wary of any danger, of _anyone,_ that posed the slightest threat to her life.

It was complete chaos in the building. Amidst the gunfire and shouting, the commando could hear the unique sparks of cluster flashbangs; no doubt deployed by Officer Siu. The explosions were followed by even more automatic fire, signaling that a room had been cleared. At this point, Ela thought about running into the fray, hoping that someone from A or B Teams would recognize her. But her instincts advised otherwise; she was more likely to run into a Triad gunner than one of her friends. She was on her own and the feeling was mutual. She just hoped that the cops were not stupid enough to shoot her. Everyone else was fair game.

"I am the Great Zanzibar! Seeker of-"

" _Kurwa!_ (Fuck!)"

She fired two shots into the noise: a fortune-telling machine with a creepy looking puppet. The bullet holes exposed some of the machine's circuitry as it died. Ela quickly berated herself for the stupid mistake, then she made haste for the exit. Thankfully, her pre-planned escape route was short and easy to navigate. Just outside was the sunny sky, the sound of gunfire, and the old Bumper Car Arena. Beyond that was the back exit of Rainbow Fun Land, and hopefully some friendly police vehicles waiting to accept her.

"KAZI! WHERE ARE YOU GOING!?"

She had only taken two steps when she heard a voice from her right. It was a bald thug brandishing an MP5. The same brute who welcomed her to the arcade parlor not too long ago. He was sweaty and angry. She still couldn't recall his name.

By now, he must have realized that something was amiss. There stood a hired gun, making off with a large bag, running for it rather than fighting with the rest of her mates. He was rightfully pissed off. He pointed his weapon at her. Ela realized that she was standing in the open, and so she ran to the nearest bumper car for cover. She prayed that her feet were fast enough.

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

The bullets kicked up dirt and dust as they missed her boots by inches. Meanwhile, she blind-fired her weapon at the thug, who promptly dove for the nearest wall. Safe behind her own cover, Ela crouched and adopted a more stable firing position. She did not let up; she wanted to hold the bastard back while she made a gangway for the gate. Since she lacked a more powerful firearm, she didn't want to waste time in a firefight.

After a fresh reload of her weapon, she stood up to switch cover...

*Pop!*

"AHH!", she yelled.

There was a sudden, sharp and stinging pain in her left leg. It came out of nowhere. It felt like her pants had snagged one of the rusted, sharp edges of the bumper car, tearing a piece of her flesh as well. But to her surprise, it was nothing of the sort. There was a syringe, sticking out of her ankle. It was small, perhaps two-inches long, and was connected to a vial of some strange green liquid. Just beside her foot was a crushed canister, surrounded by other such needles that had dispersed everywhere. The device was specially-made and bore the markings of the Hong Kong Police.

It was one of the mines that Office Siu warned her about. Ela spouted all sorts of curses. She pulled the needle out from her leg and stood up, but she struggled to get on her feet. She felt numbness slowly coursing throughout her lower body. Her vision started to blur. She was poisoned. Wobbly and dizzy, she didn't realize that she had dropped her pistol when she fell.

"Argh!"

Then, she felt another pain. This time, it was the back her head, receiving the brunt of a hard buttstock. The bald, tattooed man had caught up with her when she ceased firing. After kicking away Ela's firearm, he tackled the woman to the ground and wringed his hands around her neck. There was a devilish look in his eyes as he started choking the life out of her. Weakened by the poison and relieved of her weapon, she started throwing punches at him, but to no avail. Her fists couldn't break his nose, nor could they wound his cheek. She was pinned and flat on her back. If she had her knife with her, she would've made for his jugular right now.

While her mind was addled by pain, she suddenly remembered her one lifeline. Her last option.

"Here's a memento..."

With gritted teeth, she pulled her one Grzmot mine from its pouch and yanked the pin. She brought it up to the thug's head, who was baffled by its markings. Ela let out a brief laugh, genuinely amused by the frightened look on his face. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and braced for the blast.

She recalled her dear father's words, one more time.

 _Courage is strength, little girl. Courage, always._

...

* * *

...

She was out for a few minutes as far as she could tell. Her ears were still ringing and her head still had the mother of all migraines. A medic applied a moist cotton ball on her arm before administering a shot. He didn't have gentle hands.

"Ow! Be careful!", Ela yelled at him.

The man ignored her while he applied the bandage. Then, he left her sitting on the stretcher while he tended to the other casualties, both Triad and HKPF. Sighing to herself, the Polish woman tilted her head. She saw the familiar, broken characters painted in a shade of red. '彩虹遊樂園'. 'Rainbow Fun Land'. She was back at the front gate. This time, she was surrounded by police cars and ambulances. The skyline in the distance remained the same.

It was surreal. One moment she was fighting for her life. On the next, she was in the company of friends and allies. The concussion mine must have knocked her out cold pretty good, because she couldn't remember being carried by the ambulance crews. Nor would she let them to; far too many people had tried to grope her ass when she was vulnerable. But she was too tired to be angry. She was simply glad that the whole mess was over. Her paper-laden duffel bag was right with her as well; she won herself a hard fought victory.

Amidst the small crowd, she saw a short, black-haired lady in body armor, cradling a bullpup firearm. The policewoman was barking orders to her fellows, while others tended to their own stuff. She still had her blue goggles and headset on.

"Officer Siu.", Ela called.

The SDU Team Leader smiled and approached the pale-skinned woman.

"Miss Bosak."

She gave her a tight hug; a release of tension and a mark of camaraderie. Ela wanted to push her away, but she understood the reason behind the friendly embrace. She let it slide for once.

"Goodness. We were worried when we lost contact with you, Ela."

"Yeah, well... You people nearly killed me."

"*sigh* It was Officer Liu. He got a bit carried away with the poison mines."

"Where is he?"

Officer Siu whistled with her fingers and shouted at her colleague. Moments later, another cop came up to her: an Asian man donning a simple shirt and a pair of cargo pants beneath his camouflaged tactical gear. He had a stupid grin on his mug when he arrived. The GROM operative never saw his face before; perhaps he was absent in the meeting four days ago.

" _Diǎn ya?_ (What's up?)", he spoke with a toothpick between his lips. "You need me for somethin'?"

"Are you Liu?", Ela asked aloud.

"Yes! Liu Tze Long...", he offered his hand like a gentleman. "...Hong Kong Police, Explosives Ordnance Disposal Branch. At your service, madam!"

*smack!*

He was brought down with a swift haymaker to the jaw. His fellow officers gasped in surprise, while others let out stifled laughter. As if this wasn't the first time that he got punched by a pissed off lady.

"Nice to meet you too."

Officer Liu stood up in no time, taking the blow like a champ. Rather than act all angry and offended, he saw the humor behind it and laughed. It prompted the rest of his colleagues to join in, especially the short-haired lady.

"Ohohoho! You hit like a man! I like you already!", he clapped his hands.

"She almost died to your 'needle candies'. I'd be angry too.", the female cop opined.

"Relax! It takes hours before the poisons do permanent damage. She's been given the antidote, no?"

They then reverted to their native tongue, presumably to exchange light jabs and half-meant criticisms. While the SDU bantered away, Ela was left alone with her thoughts. She took off her baseball cap, and let her hair breathe. She kept the headset on to drown out the noise around her. She wanted a cigarette. The adrenaline in her body had died down, her heart resumed its normal beating. So ended another chapter in the life of Operative Elżbieta Bosak, former troublemaker, ex-security contractor, incursion specialist of C Squadron, GROM.

She thought about her father, about how he would react to what she did. What would be Jan Bosak's professional assessment of her performance? The mission was technically a success, but it was sloppy work. Perhaps if she planned her escape better, or if she acted a day earlier and not waited for some mystery woman to show up, the results would have been more positive. At least there were a lot less bad guys in Hong Kong thanks to one soldier-girl.

"Hey. What happened back there?", Officer Siu sat beside her.

"I don't know. Mr. Goh had a female guest, an American... They were talking about stuff, then he ordered me out of the room... She... she must have killed him and his guards right after."

"You left his side?!"

"He told me to stash his money away. What do you want me to do?"

The policewoman wanted to argue with her, but she relented. She understood the dilemma, even if that didn't make either of them feel any better. To ease both of their worries, Ela activated the voice recorder in her wristwatch. The SDU officer listened in to a 10-second conversation that, apparently, led to nowhere. At least there was proof that another party was involved in Goh's death.

"Our Commissioner will not like this.", Siu continued. "We need Danny Goh on Witness Protection. To help us bring the Triads down."

"Heh. My Commander needed to know if he worked with terrorists who plan to attack Poland. I guess that makes two of us."

"So, what are you gonna do now?"

Ela didn't know how to answer that question. She appreciated the Hong Kong Police's efforts to help her, but she couldn't tell them any classified information either. With Goh out of the picture, the GROM commando had no other recourse but to rendezvous with the rest of her squadron in Seoul and work their _other_ lead. Perhaps the Koreans had better odds. Though that brunette bitch with the sunglasses said the CIA knew about this arrangement; GROM would have to be extra careful moving forward. Just who the hell was that woman?

"Here. I don't need 'her' anymore."

It was the best response that the green-haired soldier could give. The fake passport of Kazimiera 'Kazi' Koziol. If anything, the cops could blame today's misfortune on this ghost. Officer Siu realized the gesture and pocketed the little book. This was the part where they would go on their separate ways, at least for now.

"Hey Ying, have you seen this?", Officer Liu approached them. He had some kind of junk in his hands. "It's in the dumpster over there."

"What's that?"

It was a peculiar item. It was dark, dirty, and it looked like a bird's nest, but more than twice the size. The team leader took the object from her colleague and gave it a closer inspection. Turning it to the side, the item showed long strands of what looked like human hair. The follicles were covered in soot, but they also smelled like gunpowder. The stench was fresh.

 _Is that a wig?_

…

* * *

 _Cuerpo Nacional de Policía_ (CNP) Headquarters, Madrid, Spain  
Parking Level

Two hours later.

…

The sun was scorching hot. Dominic wanted to complain about the heat and the humid air; he had gotten used to the weather in Hereford. Then again, he just spent a considerable amount of time at the chilly gallows, underneath the National Police HQ. Two hours of constant talking, threatening, and negotiating would take a toll on any sane person's endurance. But at least the interrogation was over. It was time to go home. And it was time for Ramirez to get back on his duties. Before anything else, however, one last form of courtesy must be shown. It was only proper for the host to see his guests out, and for them to thank the hospitality.

"I hope we've been of great help to you, _amigo.._."

The Spaniard shook hands with him.

"...So, can you do me a favor? I want to know what will happen on my first day in Hereford."

"Hah! We'll put you through hell, _mein Freund.._. I vill not spoil you the initiation process, though. No offense."

"Why the secrets? Rainbow is not doing anything illegal, is it?"

The two men exchanged laughs; the hypocrisy was not lost to them. Forcefully extracting information from prisoners was a direct violation of the Geneva Conventions, which Team Rainbow was a Party to, at least by proxy. But as any good undercover cop would say, nobody could throw the book at them if they're friends with the publisher.

There would be plenty of time later to iron out the legal issues of this little trip. After waiting for a few minutes, a black Vauxhall Astra finally pulled up by the sidewalk, just a few feet beside Dominic and his acquaintance. Mark Chandar was in the driver's seat. He motioned for his colleague to get in, who promptly took his time. The Spaniard, meanwhile, was busy inspecting their ride.

"Nice car. You brought that all the way from England?", Ramirez asked.

"Oh, this is a rental. But our 'company car' is exactly like this one."

"Hmm... I see that you people have interesting taste. I'm sure Mira will love to see your garage."

With one last chuckle, the German bid farewell and entered the passenger seat. The car began the short drive from the CNP building and to the exit gate. The young man with the stained white shirt returned the security clearances to the guards, like the good boy that he was. Then it was off to Madrid–Barajas Airport, some 30 minutes away, in order to catch their 12:00 flight back home. They would probably grab a quick lunch along the way. In the meantime, they thought about their findings. Priego mentioned plenty of names: among them was Goh Daoming.

"I ringed the HKPF...", Mark blurted while keeping his eyes on the road. "...They just got into a firefight at Danny Goh's place in Lantau."

"Really? Is he..."

"They didn't say. But I swear if they killed him..."

His words felt tired and weak. Like he placed all his hopes to that one particular name that the drug dealer mentioned during the questioning. Priego didn't know who Mohandes was either; his answers only created even more questions.

"...Fausse had a deal with Mr. Goh. I reckon he's the one who smuggled the chemical weapons into America. We need him alive."

"I'll prepare for the worst, I were you.", Dominic lectured. "Things tend to go to _sheise_ in our line of work, no matter what we do."

"He might know where the White Masks are right now!"

"Oh please... Get used to disappointment."

Mark fell silent. For once, he didn't want to snap back at the older man. His advice was true, after all. It was easy for any group of professionals to think they could do anything and control all the variables. But as time and again had shown, fate usually had other plans in mind. Even the best and brightest soldiers on the planet would be powerless against the whims of luck and chance. If Goh was in fact killed by the Hong Kong Police, then Team Rainbow needed to come up with a Plan B.

"*sigh* Why do we even bother with this 'cloak and dagger' nonsense, eh?", the former SAS engineer ranted. "We lied that we're from Europol. We broke police protocols. We tortured a man who had a hole in his shoulder..."

"You did fine. At least you found out what your next career will be, _ja_?"

"Shut it. Next time, I'll tell Baker to have Pereira do the questioning..."

Dominic laughed, if only to cheer the kid up. Speaking of which, it was time to tell _Herr_ 'Thatcher' about the results of their little trip to Madrid. The older man took out the compact firewall and router that Mark had stashed in the passenger compartment. He assembled the tiny apparatus and prepped up for a real-time video call. Usually, a public Wi-Fi would be enough, but the two Rainbow troopers needed a heavily encrypted channel to reach their comrades in England. With everything set, Dominic started the call while his companion kept his hands on the wheel.

The device rang once, then twice, then three times. Then, the face of an elder Englishman with greying hair appeared on the screen. The old man was in Rainbow's black fatigues, as usual.

"Brunsmeier. What's yer status?"

"Mission complete, sir. The prisoner talked. We have several leads to look into."

Dominic fumbled with the phone to send an email. He hoped that Mark's portable firewall would be enough to protect the electronic message from phishers and snooping hackers. While it had names of Rainbow's possible next targets, Priego revealed one particular associate of Leonard Fausse who demanded attention. A toxicologist who used to work for the American Department of Homeland Security. With Mr. Goh being an unknown variable at the moment, this man should be the focus of the hunt.

"Message received.", Baker turned to his side. "Care to tell me the short version, lad?"

"We need to find Mr. Adam Kipper."

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** I wanted to experiment a bit with Bandit and Ela. For the former, I thought about practical uses for the CED-1 and I figured it can be used to interrogate suspects. For the latter, Ela's background as an infiltrator and former mercenary intrigued me, so I portrayed her as a kind of super-sleuth (her bio mentioned a mission with Valkyrie which implies she did something like this). I'll also add her to the South Korean/Polish chapter once their Operators have been released. :)

On a side note, I read online that the 'Theme Park' map is most likely located in where Hong Kong Disneyland sits today, hence its location in Lantau.


	9. Chapter 8 - The Engineer

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight - "The Engineer"**

* * *

"The Compound", Outskirts of Redmond, Oregon  
Later that night.

…

It's Moving Day.

Caleb kept himself busy in the office by filling a green ammunition box. Everyone else tended to their own thing: hoisting crates, reviewing manifests, or keeping watch at the perimeter. Some of the men tended to their children. The little ones bawled and yelled while their fathers did their best not to cry. There were a dozen kids in the Compound, and they were all to be sent away to prepare for the coming storm. A school bus waiting to drop them off somewhere out of state. The air was rather tense.

More than 24 hours had gone by since Hong Kong reported back. Goh Daoming had also gone dark. The other cells in Europe had been silent for far longer, but that was because they were busy with the prepping. With what happened over the past few days, nobody was sure anymore if things were fine or if they were going to hell in a hand basket. Such were the realities of a compartmentalized operation.

The relative peace was broken when a couple of butterfingers dropped one of the crates outside. The sniper looked on as two men with tactical vests hurried to the overturned container and returned it to the truck bed. There was no time to point fingers. However, at least one person had his priorities skewed. A curly-haired man, tan-skinned, and sporting a well-trimmed beard. He was the newest addition to the group, rescued all those months ago from a foreign shithole.

"This is not part of our deal!", The Engineer came up to him , angry. "Why are you sending _me_ north?!"

Again, his English didn't have a hint of Arabic on it. He had acclimatized to his new environment well. Or rather, that's what he wanted everyone to think.

"Hey, are you deaf?!", he yelled again. "I'm talking to you!"

"Christ... What the hell more do you want?", Caleb spat back. "Up there you'll have your boat, your private casino, your own suite..."

In other words, the typical vices of a man 'with taste'.

"I'll be in the middle of nowhere!"

"You'll have a dozen men with you. You can continue your work from there..."

The argument felt like a broken record. After what happened in Los Angeles, it dawned on everyone that the Compound would be compromised soon. Concessions had to be made to prepare for this inevitability. An elaborate deception to catch the cops off guard. Yet, the resident chemist continued to refuse his role in the ploy. As if he felt he was being sent away as a sacrificial lamb. After all these months, he still didn't trust the rest of his colleagues here: the so-called 'White Masks'. Little did he know that they felt the same way towards him; the professionalism was just a thin veneer.

"…Besides, you agreed to work for us, right? That means following orders, no questions asked."

"You mean like those idiots over there?"

"They're not needed for 'D-Day'. And you know what? They're okay with it. Hell, they've _accepted_ it, like patriots. Real men. Unlike you."

"They're _dead_ men. And you are all shortsighted fools!"

The Engineer then walked up to the bald man, threateningly. Working hands became still as the other workers started to gawk at the confrontation between the two. Their best sniper and point man, up against the genius behind the Freedom Day attack's success.

"Real men. Patriots. Duty...", the latter went on. "...You think you're a big guy because you used to live by those words? Do you jerk off to them every night before you sleep?"

"I served. Could you say the same?"

"Hah! Call me anything you like, but at least I didn't fall for that bullshit about 'brotherhood' and 'honor'!"

Caleb felt his face turn into a frown. For someone who didn't care much about sentiments, he suddenly had the urge to blow the man's head off, right on the spot. He reached his hand to the SIG pistol tucked behind his trousers, but he relented at the last second. A gunshot would attract unwanted attention to the Compound, even from half a mile away. The boys would have another body to get rid off. Not to mention, their benefactor would be incredibly pissed to learn about this pencil-necked coward's sudden demise. Not when he still had a big part to play.

"Don't test me, 'Mohandes'. I don't need a gun to kill you."

"Ooooh, did I cut too deep? Stop waving your dick around. You and me... we're not so different. We both grew up with the hero-stories. But I didn't turn a blind eye to the truth; this country spends 'heroes' like pennies to keep itself from falling apart..."

There was conviction, a strong one, in his voice. It was quite out of the ordinary, hearing this scumbag speak like a philosopher.

"...It's all about power in the end, right? At least I have the good fucking sense to make the most out of this!", he flaunted himself. "You should be thankful I shared my money to get us the weapons you wanted from Hong Kong!"

"Whatever. Pack your bags. You have a flight to catch."

The Engineer didn't realize that the preaching had no effect on Caleb. The man in front of him didn't need some self-professed egotist to remind him of his lot in life. He already made his choice with a clear conscience. He would never be swayed by the money nor by some misplaced sense of justice. He was simply glad for the role he had to play. Like a weapon that finally found someone worthy to wield it again.

With the war of words ending nowhere, the bearded man turned around and left, looking smug along the way. He shook his head in utter disbelief that he won this round. Caleb looked on, imagining the most efficient way to kill him with his bare hands. That day couldn't come any sooner. When he returned to his desk, he saw the men were still looking at him, intimidated and anxious. He wanted none of their concern. He gave them a baleful, soul-piercing glare, telling them to get about their business. And they scurried to their respective spots, getting the message.

Thus, the rustic farm complex in the ass-end of Redmond was rife with activity once again. It was clear from the way they worked hastily that many in the Outfit didn't expect their timetable to drastically shift. In hindsight, they should've realized that the capture of Leonard Fausse's business partner in Spain would result in unforeseen consequences. The government's crackdown on his little group's remnants was unrelenting, and almost every law enforcement agency in the West Coast was still on the prowl. Some men had lingering concerns that their prepping would soon attract a curious cat or two. Maybe Rainbow was finally on to them as well. But others didn't worry as much. The whole plan hinged on the cops finding their little hideout in Oregon _anyway_.

With the ammunition boxes now completely filled, Caleb loaded them to the pickup truck. All the while, he ran simulations in his head on how D-Day would be carried out. The Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit would be held in New York, almost two weeks from now. Brooklyn Bridge was only a short distance away from the actual venue. The attack would be a gargantuan undertaking, given the number of moving parts involved. The bombs that The Engineer built would play a key role, but they wouldn't be enough. Once they got the rest of Danny Goh's merchandise, however, everything would be a cakewalk.

They only needed more time to get everything in place. Rainbow's quest to unravel the plan must be delayed just a little bit longer. Caleb wanted to speak with the Bossman soon.

*Ring! Ring!*

Speak of the devil. The cellphone granted his wish.

"Sir?"

"Hey there, kid.", a deep garbled voice responded. "How are things there?"

"The Compound Z is already packed and ready to head north, sir. Only a couple dozen guys will be left here as a token force."

"Good work. Burn all unnecessary baggage. And see to it that _everyone_ falls in line. This will be a big one."

He noticed a boy and his dad exchange a tearful goodbye just as the bus was about to leave. Rather than empathize, Caleb lamented about the waste of a perfectly good shooter; pre-teens with M16s could do a lot of damage with the proper setup. On the other hand, he understood that someone had to carry on the fight in the years to come. For the first time in a long while, the former Marine felt a chill crawl up his spine. All of the killings, all of the shady deals, all of the attacks in Europe and Africa had finally led to this. Bartlett University showed that Compound Z was indeed a potent weapon, even in an open venue. Team Rainbow would undoubtedly prepare for it in New York, but they didn't know the whole picture. He couldn't wait to test his mettle on them.

"Oscar Mike. Though... I haven't heard anything from Mr. Goh..."

The man on the phone paused for a few seconds. Something was wrong.

"He's dead... Shot in the head this morning."

"Damn... I knew it. Did you give you give the order?"

"It wasn't us, kid. Hong Kong Police might have beaten us to him. Or maybe GROM... I still have to check with my source in Virginia."

The boss was referring to the recent collaboration of Polish special forces and their counterparts in Asia. The news caused no small amount of alarm when the men found out about it. The attack on Bartlett reverberated farther than they expected. If some serious muscle like GROM had finally come to the picture, that would only mean that the world's getting rather serious with the 'White Masks'. No doubt the other cells were at greater risk.

"Sir... With respect, I think we should run our ship tighter.", Caleb suggested. "Rainbow will be at our doorstep very soon and we can't afford any distractions."

"I know. Some of them were in Madrid today, following a lead...", the Bossman didn't mince worse. "...It appears Adam left behind more paper trails than he let us on."

"That son of a bitch...", he tightened his fist.

"Don't worry about it. I have that end covered. Though to be honest, I didn't expect things to get this rough with _you_ behind the wheel."

The words were ominous, but they didn't give the bald sniper any fear. He knew what they meant. The boss was only lecturing him that he went too hasty with killing Mr. Fausse in Los Angeles. But he had no choice. The whole plan would've been jeopardized if this old fool was left to alive. The sniper did what any sane, sinister man would have done in that situation.

"I did everything by the manual, sir."

"True, but now we have more spec ops guys to deal with, on top of Team Rainbow. It'll take me too much effort to keep them _and_ Homeland Security in the dark, from here on out."

"Really? You can't use the CIA to give 'em fake intel, yet this whole rigmarole for Freedom Day isn't 'too much effort' for you?"

At that moment, the sniper felt his temper flare up again. It was a rare occurrence to have it happen twice in a row. Some of the men heard his loud voice, turning their gazes to him a second time. But he didn't care much for their concern. Before he spouted something he would later regret, he backtracked on his tone and chose his next words more carefully.

"Sorry about that, boss. I'm just…", he started over. "...Why do we have so many people working on this? It's like we're asking for the whole plan to fail."

"That's the point. All war is deception, son. And our enemies are sentimentalists, easily swayed by spectacles and 'public perception'."

"Oh come on, spare me the poetry."

"Heh. You'll appreciate it, in time."

'We fight against a rogue idea in our society' the older man used to lecture him. 'This idea believes it is fine and progressive to go easy on our enemies... that it is fine to take Freedom for granted, bereft of neither responsibility nor consequence'. 'Drastic measures must be taken to remove this cancer, before the vultures start to circle', the rhetoric went. It was all nonsense as far as Caleb was concerned. If he was a younger man with a smaller mind, maybe he would've bought the sales pitch and believed in it like a drone. He had no illusions that he signed up for some sort of grandiose crusade. But while he never truly believed in the spirit of the cause, he was nonetheless committed to see its fruition.

Why? He couldn't quite place his finger on it. Ever since he was brought on board, he simply felt... alive again. He yearned for a sense of direction. He only had one worthwhile skill and he finally had the chance to use it again. It didn't matter if he had to wear a stupid mask or a crummy set of disguises. Vindication was more than enough. The Engineer was right in that regard: in the end it was all about power, about learning who held the stick and who would be lorded over it. But unlike the self-serving chemist, the sniper didn't mind if he was nothing more than a tool.

So engrossed with his thoughts, Caleb didn't notice that another delivery vehicle had just pulled over outside. Some of the men dropped what they were doing and began taking out boxes from the container truck. One man used a crowbar to pry them open, and immediately laughed like a frat boy when he saw its contents. GShG-7.62 rotary machineguns, complete with spare motors, barrel clamps, and state-of-the-art targeting systems, fresh from the black markets of Kiev. Team Rainbow would go through hell, when they finally arrive.

"Sir, our shipment from Hong Kong just got here."

"Right on schedule. See to it that Adam also takes them north. If my estimates are correct, our counter-terror friends will be looking for 'Mohandes', instead of him. If not..."

"Roger that. I know what to do."

Mohandes. 'The Engineer'. An honorific granted by Middle Eastern terrorists to people with an extensive academic background. Just barely away from Caleb's periphery, he saw the man in question donning a knapsack and two gym bags on either hand. He was about to board the pickup truck for the short journey to the private airstrip. He didn't exchange glances with the grim killer, and neither did he. One of them knew that their next meeting would likely end in blood. And this man could hardly wait for that day to come.

"... I'll trust you on that kid. In the meantime, I'll see if I can find out who killed Mr. Goh. I don't recall issuing a kill order so soon."

"Does it matter, sir? We need him dead in the long run anyway."

A few seconds lasted between the underling's comment and the leader's next words.

"I'm more worried about the nature of his death...", the latter said. "...I think someone is playing us for saps."

…

* * *

Downtown Fayetteville, North Carolina  
Ten miles from Fort Bragg

The next morning.

…

Emily Jacobsen hadn't had a good night's rest in a while. Prepping for yesterday's mission took far more time than she originally anticipated, and she almost brought attention to it from her colleagues. As case officer in the Special Activities Division, she could get away with a lot of things. But even so, she knew better than to push her luck. Hasty planning almost got her cover blown as well during the op, and she only pulled through thanks to her wits. She wouldn't be as fortunate next time.

At least she knew that she was still handy with a gun.

With a heavy sigh, she leaned on her seat in the cab as the driver glanced at his rearview mirror. She always relished the thrill of the hunt, whether as the hunter or as the prey. Yesterday, she played both roles. Today, she was neither. She was now back in the home front, safe and sound. Back to the mundane day-to-day that she pretended to have. She ticked off boxes in her head, double-checking if she really covered her tracks before she boarded that flight to LAX. When she arrived, she changed clothes and used a different passport to fly economy-class to Raleigh. Then she took a train to Fayetteville, but stopped just short of her destination and hailed a taxi as an extra precaution. So far so good.

"Drop me off here.", she told the driver.

The taxi slowed to a halt beside a trendy coffee shop in Hay Street. Emily grabbed her traveling backpack and paid her fare to the man behind the wheel before she left. She hoisted the backpack across her shoulder, then peered into the large windows of the cafe. She combed over the myriads of faces until she found the man with the brown hair and grey eyes. Her friend was sitting in the far corner, wearing a purple shirt and a pair of cream-colored pants. He still had the same dull fashion sense.

"Here I go.", she whispered, mustering courage for herself.

She went through a lot of trouble today simply for a friendly visit, but she didn't mind. She opened the door into the shop and immediately locked her blue eyes onto the man. His quiet disposition faded away when he saw her; a friendly smile quickly formed in his stern face.

"Emily."

"Ethan..."

They exchanged hugs.

"...How've you been? It feels like ages huh?"

"One week, to be exact. I'm glad you came by."

The red-haired woman giggled as they made their way back to his table. Before she sat down, she rested her backpack between her feet; she didn't want some random dufus tripping over it. Not while she had a lot of important things stuffed in there.

"I did say that the CIA's gonna keep tabs on you, didn't I?", she went on.

"Woah, hold on. I phoned you first.", the man raised his hands a bit, defending himself. "That's not exactly the definition of 'hiding', is it?"

Emily laughed for a second time. As a show of courtesy, Ethan called for the waitress while his guest grabbed the menu. She recited what she would be having, playing along. She glanced at the man, who promptly nodded with a shrug on his shoulders and a small grin on his lips. Today's treat was on him; she could order anything she liked.

"What's with the bag?", he asked her before telling his order. "Did your boss sent you somewhere?"

"Just came back from a business trip in Hong Kong. Top secret. You know, same old crap..."

"Top secret, eh? Did you bring a wig?"

She gave him the most playful smile she could.

…

Twenty minutes flew by. For the former co-workers, it felt like they'd been talking for an hour. It was all friendly chatting for the most part, to catch up since their last meeting in Fort Sam Houston. The spook let old habits get the better of her, as usual. She reminded herself that while she really wanted to meet up with him, she had another reason for her visit.

"So... can you finally tell me about your new job?", she prodded him. "I thought you were in England? You're not back in Bragg, are you?"

"It's... complicated. I have a standard-issue nine-mil and an NDA, so..."

"Hmph. That's a shit way of saying 'I can tell you, but I'll then have to kill you'..."

Emily followed her words with one more sip of her cup.

"...I bet your item is 'black', right? Like, Tier-One, 'hiding-in-the-shadows' kind of black?"

The question made Ethan a bit uncomfortable, which the woman was pleased to see. 'Black', of course, meant 'black operations'. It was the most logical answer she could think of: the career prospects of a former Delta sniper and CIA asset were usually quite narrow. And since he did not hold a college degree, he would have had no other lucrative future than in law enforcement or the military. An educated guess would be that he was working directly for someone in the Pentagon. Speaking from her personal experience, there's never a shortage of bigwigs in need of ex-special forces muscle.

"Give me a break.", he complained. "I give you free coffee and this is how you repay me?"

"Sure, sure... Dodge the questions. You men are always like that."

The cafe was quite cozy. People of all stripes enjoyed their day with steaming cups and pastries. Faint music played in the background, while others talked or laughed to their leisure. It was easy to let one's guard down at such place, especially in the company of a friend. Or it could be the morning lethargy she had today.

"This is a nice place, Mr. Mallory. Aren't dive bars more of your thing?"

"The ones in town are closed at this hour.", he leaned back on his chair. "Besides, you women love fancy cafes, don't you?"

"Jesus Christ…", she laughed. "...Whoever told you that needs to get out more. Was it your ex-wife?"

Ethan smiled back and took a sip from his cup. But when he set it down, his eyes were slightly lowered. The grin on his face suddenly vanished. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"It was Gabe."

At that moment, Emily felt disgusted with herself. She didn't think she would be speaking ill of the dead so soon.

"Ah… I'm… I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Nah, it's alright.", he smiled back. It was a harmless, innocent jab, after all. "Wasn't the first he gave me bad advice."

His laugh was typical of a soldier: genuine and humble, reminiscing his fallen comrade while poking fun at him. The woman, on the other hand, realized her awkward position. Today was supposed to be a cordial visit, not a chance to reopen old wounds. Gabriel DeWynne and Ethan Mallory were brothers in all but blood. But thanks to her, that friendship came to a violent end. Months had gone by since Operation Witch Hunt, but she could still feel the pang of guilt in her heart. She was the one who got them involved into this… mess. She decided to put their lives on the line and spend them like currency if needed. Only one of them made it out alive. But the mission had to succeed.

It's what her father would've wanted.

Just like that, Emily felt her pulse quicken in anxiety. She shifted in her seat to be more comfortable, all the while she thought about the best way to steer this conversation. Perhaps it might be a good idea if she stopped being so plucky. She already threw 'empathy' out of the window when she agreed to this meeting, knowing full well that she really had a different reason to see him. She needed to stop digger herself deeper. She hardened her heart even more, despite that her soul was torn between her conscience and her desire to fulfill her mission.

"So, why _did_ you drag my ass up here?", she asked in a serious tone. "I could be back Arlington, you know, enjoying a spa. God knows I need one right now."

After one last sip, the brown-haired fellow pulled out a piece of paper from his backpocket and set it on the table. It was a note, filled with various words and numbers. She paid no attention to them, until her brain finished processing the figures. When she read the note again, her hand froze around the coffee cup. There was a name there, something that she never thought would see today.

"Adam Kipper?", she asked.

"Former toxicology consultant at the DHS. He went rogue sometime ago and started working with Leonard Fausse. He erased his personal data before he left. We have… friends in Europe who say that he might help us find Mohandes."

"The Engineer? You're still after that bastard?"

"I'm not the only one. This Kipper-guy might now where to find him though."

The woman took a closer look on the paper. The figures actually pertained to coordinates: latitude, longitude, written in sets of three to triangulate a probable location. At least two of the sets pointed to somewhere in Oregon and California. All sorts of emotions bubbled in her heart, some of them berated her for the next words she was about to spew.

"Let me guess…", she continued, speaking softly. "…You're asking the CIA's help to track down Mr. Kipper for you?"

"I want to ask for _your_ help, actually.", the man replied bluntly. "I know you're a desk jockey these days, but... I think you're in the best position to lend us a hand."

He still believed that white lie she told him long ago. The guilt piled up even more.

"This is a tall order, Ace. You realize that? Do you know whose ass I have to kiss just to get this into the friggin' queue?"

"I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important."

"*sigh* Look. It's not that I don't want to help, but I have to protect what's left of my career... Why me? Can't your 'agency' file a formal request?"

"We can't wait that long, Emily. Every day we spend doing nothing gives Mohandes and his friends more time to kill people."

"We have rules, Ethan.", she countered. "You can't just skip proper procedure to get what you want. If we-"

He cut her off by placing his palm on her wrist, holding it lightly. It was a gesture of mercy, one that the redhead did not expect from him out of all people. It summed him up quite well. He's a good man. A brave soldier. A loyal friend. To some little girl in this Connecticut, he's also a good father. He would've been a powerful ally as well, if fate didn't turn out the way it did. Admittedly, she was humbled by his persistence and humility. If only things were different, she would've offered to help him, no questions asked. She wanted to be honest with him.

"Please…", he pleaded. "…You're the only one I can trust with this."

But she knew that in her line of work, 'honesty' didn't always translate to 'doing the right thing'. It was quite the opposite in fact. Gone were the days that Emily fought in the shadows to protect her country. Lies and half-truths were her current stock in trade, and her role today was no different. Powerful, dangerous men were about to change this country. This country, filled with fools living the easy life who risk letting their hard-fought Freedom slip away. While she wrestled with her feelings, her brain told her to ditch her seat and walk out. Her mission demanded that she remain detached and distant. Masking the conflict within, she did her best to see this man as nothing more than a statistic.

Or perhaps even as a threat. The way he asked for her help only lent credence to her theory. Sergeant Ethan Mallory was _most certainly_ hired by someone in the military for a specific, top-secret purpose. Counter-terrorism? Counter-intelligence? If he was dead set on finding 'The Engineer', then he'd surely be involved with some bigwigs from the Department of Defense. Maybe even Homeland Security, given that Kipper used to work for them. She took mental notes while she formulated her next words. She wondered if she should tell the SAD about this.

"I… Oh fuck it. Fine, I'll see what I can do. No promises, though."

Ethan's expression brightened when he heard that. She gave him a reassuring smile. At the back of her mind, Emily knew that this was a big mistake. She ignored her conscience this time, while she placed the note inside her backpack. She slipped it into one of the pockets, just beside a loaded Beretta and a few papers in Cantonese. The fruits of her labor.

"Thanks… You're a lifesaver."

"Whatever. You owe me dinner next time we meet.", she smirked. "Unless… you want my help on something else?"

"Well… Our Intel also said that Mohandes changed his name. I don't suppose the CIA knows anything about that too?"

"No, I haven't heard anything about that."

She lied to his face a second time.

…

* * *

Badenstedter Street, Hannover, Germany  
2210 hours

Day Six

…

The streets were unusually quiet at this hour. If Dominic's experience as an outlaw was anything to go by, the silence was usually a precursor to something big. Probably a race or another turf war. Either way, it was the cops' problem. Team Rainbow had other matters to concern themselves with.

"~Nowhere to run to, baaaaby. Nowhere to hiiiide.~"

"Elias, stop singing.", he berated the driver, who was bored out of his gourd.

"~ _Ich kann nirgendwo hingehen_ (I got nowhere to run to), baaaaby. _Es gibt kein Versteck_ (Nowhere to hide).~ ...Come on, it's a good song!"

The other German rolled his eyes and let out a deep sigh. The cramped space inside the van ensured that the rest of Bravo Team heard his exasperation. It'd been only a few hours since the mission began, but he was starting to hate it. Sitting beside the driver's seat, sharing air with three other men and one angry woman. Wrapped in a sneaking suit, on a top-secret mission from an old Englishman thousands of kilometers away. This was not the homecoming to Germany that 'Bandit' had in mind.

He believed that he was dragged along for this op simply because he knew the infamous _Die Vier Reiters_ Motorcycle Club _._ 'The Four Hoursemen'. A lifetime ago, when he was still an upstanding cop, Dominic infiltrated the Hell's Angels chapter in Hannover as a scrawny 'one-percenter'. He learned of the Reiters through their ill-reputation: they were opportunists and thieves who dabbled in every conceivable criminal enterprise for a quick paycheck. When GSG 9 raided and closed the Angels' clubhouse in Badenstedter, however, the Reiters quickly filled the niche that the infamous gang left behind. They became the clubhouse's new tenants, under the guise of a legal property acquisition, and they ruled the streets like kings ever since.

For two ex-GSG 9 operatives, their business in Hannover was also a chance to give their brothers and sisters an early Christmas gift. With luck, the stuff they would be stealing tonight also included manifests and lists that the Federal Police could later use to put this gang behind bars. Unfortunately for Officer Elias 'Blitz' Kötz, he was the designated wheelman for this mission, rather than its entry-guy and assaulter that. There simply was no room for his boisterous talents in what was essentially a government-sanctioned break-in. The parameters were clear: in and out, no body count. If possible, no shots fired.

"Oi. Nicky, me 'ol mate...", James Porter leaned in from the passenger seat. "...Remind me again why we're doin' this?"

"*sigh* Mark's friends in MI5 traced one of Adam Kipper's cash transfers to this address. The transfers were made last week..."

How and why this transaction involved a biker gang was anybody's guess, but the Reiters had been known to do odd jobs in the past, working with equally-odd people. Smuggling or money laundering, usually. Knowing them, they'd probably keep a copy of the transaction on the second-floor logistics office. The new tenants wouldn't be smart enough to demolish that part of the clubhouse.

"...We go in, find any evidence, and then we get out."

"Yeah yeah, that's brill (cool)… But a fucking Yank making a deposit to some random ghetto in Hannover? Am I the only who noticed how arse-bleedingly contrived that sounds?"

"Dear _Gott_. Just sit back and enjoy the view, _ja_?"

"I can shut him up, if you want me to...", Taina Pereira offered. She was cleaning her knife with a piece of cloth. "...He's getting under my skin."

"Oh keep yer knickers on, babe. I won't even touch ya without a dozen pints at the pub first!"

She gave him the middle finger, using the knife for extra emphasis. The two operators were clad in an attire similar to Dominic's: black sneaking suits, tactical webbing, and face-concealing masks. The angry girl was distinguished by the skull pattern on her balaclava, while the older gent's was much less decorative. He also had a satchel of modified CZ-8 gas grenades strapped to his back, intended for a variety of tactical situations. Rounding up the rest of the equipment were grappling hooks, hook lines, and portable DSM to extract intel from computers. The minimalist kit they wore ensured they'd be as quiet and light on their feet as they possibly could.

Their intimidating appearance contrasted the lighthearted banter between them, however. The female teammate was annoyed by another snide comment from James, which was lost in the white noise. She said something in Portuguese that Dominic didn't quite get, but he recognized the words for 'knife' and 'penis'. He felt like he was the only sane one in the van, and that was saying something. The boredom was about to claim him too.

" _Sheise_. You are all very unbalanced individuals."

Just as he was about to rest his head on the dashboard, he heard the unmistakable roaring of Harleys blare from the distance. More than a dozen motorcycles revved their engines and began the ride out of the clubhouse. The fleet of bikes mobilized in formation like a train, whizzing past the parked van and totally unaware of its occupants. Some of the Reiters could be heard screaming at the top of their lungs, like a war cry before a battle. Their bravado only signaled to Rainbow that the coast was clear.

"Bravo-One, do you read me?"

The radio buzzed with the voice of Captain Vicente Souza. He and Timur 'Glaz' Glazkov formed tonight's Alpha Team, tasked with observing the target building from their sniping perch somewhere in the north.

"I read you, _Herr Hauptmann_ (Mr. Captain).", Dominic replied.

"The courtyard is clear. You have your window. Five minutes."

" _Jawohl_ (Affirmative). We're moving."

With that, Bravo Team went silent as the engine started to hum. It was game time. Elias released the handbrake and drove the vehicle near their entry point: the old warehouse entrance to the east of the clubhouse. Dom, James, and Taina dismounted once they arrived at the gate, then used grappling hooks to scale the walls. They moved quickly and stealthily, away from the watchful eyes of the security cameras. The soil beneath them was soft and their boots let out a quiet thud when they landed on the ground. With all heads accounted for, they stayed in the shadows and began sorting their gear.

"Bravo-Four.", Captain Souza called his attention via radio. "Keep the engine running. You guys might need a quick exit later."

"Understood."

"Bravo-Three... Caveira... Remember the mission. No kills, no alerts."

" _Tá_ _bom, chefe._ " ("You got it, boss.")

Tonight's little team-building exercise was quite different from the usual ops that Rainbow ran. They had no helicopter support, no drones, no police reinforcements. They didn't bring another squad either; the lightweight prepping was necessary to keep things low-profile. Their only objective was to reach the second floor-vault; no bloodshed was needed. Almost everyone ditched their usual armaments in favor of sound-suppressed handguns loaded with non-lethal tranquilizers. If needed, Souza and Tim could dispense deadly force from their sniping position. But with luck, their intervention wouldn't be necessary tonight.

Bravo Team was good to go. It was radio silence from here on out until they retrieved what they came here for. With a hand signal from Dominic, the three-man team fanned out from the warehouse and hustled to the clubhouse's east-side. It was safe to assume that only a skeleton crew was on guard detail tonight, what with the rest of the Reiters out on the road at this hour.

*Woof! Woof! Woof!*

 _Oh, this is just great..._

The assumption quickly proved wrong when they encountered their first obstacle. The dogs in the kennels were awake and alert, contrary to Rainbow's estimates. No doubt the mutts had heard the rustling of boots. Acting fast, the German exchanged hand signals with James to bring out his gas grenades. Then, he motioned to Taina to bring out her gas mask as the British commando activated his 'toxic babes'.

Compound Z-8 was developed by the British in the last century as an offshoot of one of their most effective chemical weapons: Compound Z. Until recently, this weapon was only used by the Special Air Service to incapacitate trespassers. Last week, however, a bunch of American psychopaths managed to get their hands on the stuff and unleashed it on a bunch of college kids. Old Man Baker was incredibly reluctant to deploy Rainbow's own brand of the gas after that, but he saw the need for it for this mission in Hannover. Though less lethal, the 'Z-8' variant was a lot more stable and it could be mixed with other substances for specific mission requirements. Tonight, James refitted his babes with a sleeping agent to knock out a grown man or a bunch of guard dogs.

Two of his grenades were rolled beneath the kennel bars. With the push of a detonator, the devices hissed and released a faint yellow smoke. The effectiveness of the chemical quickly spoke for itself, as the barking in the kennels slowly turned into complete silence. With a thumbs up from the Brit, the team removed their breathers and pressed on.

"Get back to the warehouse and cover our rear...", Dominic tapped James' shoulder. "...We'll be back in a few."

"Right. Make it sharpish, will ya?"

After they went their separate ways, the German and his wingwoman slowly crept up to the clubhouse's eastern wall, then tossed their grappling hooks as high as they could. The hooks caught a metal pipe along the rooftop's edge with a faint clang. With the lines secured, Dominic fastened his carabiner into the rappelling line, pivoted himself, and began to climb. He kept his P12 raised, just in case some poor schmuck decided to look out of the windows. Taina followed his example. It took every effort on their part to remain quiet and swift. Judging from the noise coming from inside, there were at least five other perps lounging around in the clubhouse. A misstep from the rooftop could rile them into action. Thankfully, the two operators got topside with no sweat.

"Alpha-Two, we're at roof-level. Do you see us?"

"Visual confirmed, Bravo-One.", the Russian sniper replied. "I see no hostiles on the floor below you."

Satisfied with the answer, Dominic signaled his partner to follow him on the way down. The central sub-roof connected the clubhouse garage with the main building. It was also thick enough to muffle the sound of two pairs of boots dropping from quite a height.

The target room was just close by, near the bedroom up ahead. A closer look into the glass indicated at least two Reiters members sitting on a couch, watching TV. It was time for the infiltrators to put their tranq darts to good use. Through a series of gestures, Dominic relayed to his partner that there were a couple of hostiles on the other side, armed, and facing away from them. She nodded and recommended a quick takedown, bringing out her knife and sound-suppressed PBR92 for added emphasis. Her eyes glimmered in anticipation, like a tigress just waiting for an excuse to pounce her prey.

Seeing no other way inside the room, Dominic relented and gave her the nod. The two of them took up positions in the windows and slowly raised the glass panes. They trained their handguns onto the targets, using finger movements to assign their respective marks in lieu of fancy imaging goggles. Then, the ex-GSG 9 counted three seconds. They opened fire once he closed his hand.

*Pht! Pht!*

The bikers gasped and grimaced as they felt needles suddenly puncture their necks. The sleeping chemical quickly took effect, and the two thugs wallowed in confusion before falling into a deep slumber. With the threat taken care of, the black-clad troopers snuck their way into the bedroom and made for the exit. The logistics office was just in front of them; it's door was kept ajar. They quickly moved up and saw another man, standing with his back turned. Taina was about to shoot him in the neck, when Dominic placed a hand on her gun. He signaled to her that he'd rather leave this man conscious.

The biker, as his patches and tattoos implied, was actually a high-ranking member of the Reiters. A bookkeeper. He might be able to tell them something about Kipper's cash transfer. The skull-faced woman looked disappointed, but she acquiesced. With Dominic covering her six, Taina holstered her gun and snuck into the office with a knife drawn. A brief tumbling ensued after she disappeared from view, followed by heavily muffled screaming.

 _Holy crap..._

Bravo-One entered the room after the commotion ended. It was such a peculiar sight: a jacket-wearing thug was pinned to the ground by a terrifying commando, who covered his mouth with her left hand and pressed a blade against his jugular with her right. She had the most satisfied look in her eyes.

" _Hallo, alter_ (Hey, bro)...", Dominic knelt beside the man, who was still in the woman's grip. "... _Wo ist es_ (Where is it)?"

"Huh?"

" _Die Unterlagen von Herr_ Adam Kipper (The documents from Mr. Adam Kipper)... _Sie wissen, was ich meine._ (You know what I'm talking about)."

 _"Ich kenne ihn nicht_ (I don't know him)!"

"Tsktsk… _falsche Antwort, mein Freund_ (Wrong answer, my friend). _Wo ist es_?"

He cocked his handgun to intimidate him.

" _Ich kenne ihn nicht!_ ", the poor man pleaded. " _Bitte, tu mir nicht weh_ _!_ _"_ ("Please don't hurt me!")

What a waste of time. Dominic turned to his partner, motioning for her to knock him out. But instead of a pistol whack to the neck, Taina fired her Luison near the biker's vagus nerve. At near-point blank range. Considering the amount of force released by a non-lethal tranquilizer, he was sent to the dream world rather painfully. The jolting legs and muffled yelp proved this.

"Was that even necessary?!", the German angrily whispered.

"What? No kills, no alerts right?"

There was no time to question work ethics. With the target fast asleep, Dominic locked the door behind him and went to do his thing. As expected, the logistics office was almost exactly the same as the Angels left them. Office desks, executive chairs, cabinets of folders and trophies. The old billboard displaying the club's most prominent officers were also there, only replaced by the Reiters' own bigwigs. The only new feature of the room was the server cabinet, propped up by the wall. Thinking on his feet, Dominic took out his DSM and started downloading files from the hardware. Hopefully, the bank documents he wanted was among the contents.

While the device worked its magic, he checked the compartments and drawers for anything that resembled banking invoices. No such luck. What he found were a bunch of papers that implicated the Reiters to several illegal activities. Nothing that could save the world, but enough to keep the streets of Hannover much safer. There was a good chance that Rainbow's efforts would be wasted tonight, so Officer Dominic Brunsmeier did what any ex-Bundespolizei officer would do. Their five minutes was about to end.

*Beep! Beep!*

The download completed in the nick of time. Next objective was to exfiltrate.

"Alpha-One, this is Bravo."

"Roger, Bravo. What is your status?"

"We've finished our search. I'm not sure about what we got, but we need to exfiltrate now. Our window is closing."

"Affirmative. Glaz is seeing more movement in the bar and in the garage below. I think they know something's up."

"Wonderful..."

"Don't worry, Bravo-One.", The sniper butted in on the radio conversation. "We can improvise a distraction for you..."

Dominic didn't quite get what Tim was referring to, but he trusted him to deliver. Convinced that they had left no stone unturned, Dominic and Taina egressed from the room and went straight for the windows, using the same route as they did on the way in. They could hear footsteps from the lower floors; the thugs must have been alerted about some weird noise. They were already too late to catch the fleeing Rainbow operatives.

Outside, the two of them started to prep their grappling hooks to scale down the walls. Just a fifty meters away from them, however, they heard a faint whizzing come from the north. It was an arrow, bright and burning. It landed at the puddle of oil beside one of the Harley Davidson parked at the courtyard. Then, an explosion erupted. The ex-cops smiled at the _Hauptmann's_ quick thinking, which started a chain reaction of tiny blasts and fires. Rattled by the sudden explosions, the leather-wearing grunts made a double-take and hurried to the blaze in an effort to control it. The infiltrators were long gone by then.

…

*knock knock knock*

James opened the van's doors. He offered a hand to the first person who accepted it.

"Come on you two! Let's bugger off before they catch us!"

Taina got inside, followed by her German partner. They both had their gear clutched by their hands. With Bravo-One and Bravo-Three accounted for, James tapped the van's walls as a signal to Elias. The driver heard his cue and quickly stepped on the gas pedal. The journey to flee Badenstedter Street began in earnest with frantic screaming from the infamous Reiters and sirens of firetrucks echoing from the distance. The streets were no longer quiet.

Everyone took off their masks, to relieve themselves off the sweat and to let their skin breathe. Less than a minute into the ride, the van stopped by a sidewalk with the engine running. Another series of knocks came to the door. When it was opened, there emerged the figures of Captain Souza and Tim Glazkov, donning their black kit and the rest of their gear. The tactical crossbow, which might saved Dominic's skin today, was strapped to the one-eyed man's back. After a thumbs up from the Captain, the van drove off again.

"What did you find, huh?", he asked.

"Only one way to find out."

Dominic took out the DSM from its pouch then inserted it into on a laptop. After an audible ping, it began sifting through the files he downloaded earlier. There was a lot of metaphorical garbage to comb over, but it looked like they were on the right track. Invoices from other cash transfers. Requests to launder stolen Euros for funding. Messages between the Reiters and a few of their old customers. It seemed that the gang was indeed hired to do odd jobs for the American and his group of mystery friends.

"Anything important?"

"I... I don't know what to make of it, _Hauptmann_. We have to get them back to base for analysis."

" _Muito bem_ (Very well). With luck... Our American friend will have nowhere to run to."

Elias laughed from the driver's seat.

"~Nowhere to run to, baaaaby. Nowhere to hiiiide.~"

"Stop. Singing."

Dominic was able to catch a glimpse of the files, but he couldn't make sense of them. At least the mission was over. The van drove past more sirens as it made its way to the rendezvous in Langenhagen. He, meanwhile, prompted James to take over with the laptop-duty, while he closed his eyes and get some well-earned rest. He thought of nothing more than a good night's sleep. He'd let Mark do the thankless job of sorting through the files he recovered tonight; it was part of the boy's job description, after all.

"Oi. You think we just started a 'lil gang war?", James asked while looking at the laptop. "Those 'Four Horsemen' bastards are gonna have to blame someone for this."

"As long as they take it out on other clubs, the _dummkopfs_ can kill each other for all I care."

The German's answer brought a smile on Taina's face.

"Hmm... I like the way you think _Senhor_ Brunsmeier..."

"And I'll convince myself to take that as a compliment."

This was definitely not a pleasant homecoming to Germany he had in mind. Returning to the old streets, fighting the same thugs, doing the same kind of work he did for GSG 9. He would agree that he did great work tonight, but he'd rather be back in the office at Hereford at this point. He was not as spritely as he used to be. Rappelling from buildings and evading bad guys was all fun and games when he was younger, but tonight he felt the effects of age. His arms and legs ached. He'd be pissed if he got roped into another mission any time soon. Good thing he had friends who could back him up.

In the meantime, it seemed like their friends in America had a lot of work ahead of them.

"Woah... Wait a tick."

"What is it, Porter?", Captain Souza asked. "Did you find anything?"

"Some of these papers are in Arabic... They have Kipper's name on them. Except-"

Dominic stopped his brief slumber to look at the laptop. It was quite unusual for the boisterous Brit to pause like that. Unless he found something quite bizarre or puzzling even for his little mind.

"They gave the chap another name. 'Mohandes'."

They've heard that name before. It could pertain to a lot of things, but in this context it had only one meaning.

"The Engineer?"

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** I hope I managed to flesh out the plot more in this chapter. I know that many readers prefer to see their favorite Ops in action, but I want to give my OCs some attention first. Also, work on the next chapter is well under way, so I may be able to upload it within October as well.


	10. Chapter 9 - Time Off

**Notice:** I recently got into a healthy discussion with a friend about writing accents (affectations?), like 'ze' for 'the' and 'vork' for 'work' when using German. Long story short, I decided to tone them down from this point on to make the story relatively easier to read. I will apply this change retroactively over the next few days, though I may also reverse it if enough people say they're fine with how I deal with the accents.

 **Update (11/15/2017):** I made a few minor edits in grammar and word choice.

* * *

 **Chapter Nine - "Time Off"**

* * *

…

The mission was to locate survivors and to neutralize any bad guy she came across. Her rifle was raised. She could see the poisonous, yellow smoke everywhere in the darkness. It was in the hallways, the windows, and the grass beneath her feet. The MOPP suit made it cumbersome to move, but that was not her worry. She was looking for anyone who was still alive. It had only been a few hours since the attack; some of the students must have slipped away in the chaos. Alas, she was alone. There was a foreboding sense of despair that she tried her best to ignore.

*crack*

She thought she stepped on a piece of glass. She raised her boot, and saw a broken smartphone on the ground beside a limp hand. It was a young woman with brown hair. Her sweater was a deep shade of red, marked with the sigil of the University. Her eyes were closed and her body was still. Curious, the soldier checked for a pulse. The poor girl was still breathing, albeit faintly. It was a sign of hope.

"Hold on! I'll get you out of here!"

All she got from her was an incomprehensible mumble. Following standard procedures, the soldier brought out a rebreather mask from her pack and placed it on the kid's face, who gasped for air a moment after. Then, she hoisted her body over her shoulder and pressed on. With one survivor found, they needed to evacuate as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the soldier struggled to keep a steady running pace, weighed down by the equipment, the weapon, and the casualty she was carrying. Her eyes were wary of any danger; the terrorists were still out there, prowling for more victims. She did not see the errant rock on the ground, tripping her.

"Oof!"

The rifle-totting woman fell flat on her belly with a thud, and the girl she was carrying landed somewhere in front of her, disappearing into the smoke. Cursing under her breath, the soldier promptly got up on her feet and started looking. She spent minutes, hours, perhaps even days- it was easy to lose track of time. The mist grew darker and darker.

Out of nowhere, a hand darted out and grabbed her right arm. It was the girl. She was different. Face pale as snow and her dark hair was disheveled. The mask on her lips was gone and her breaths was raspy and pained. Her eyes were shot wide, filled with blood and tears. She was crying. She was horrifying.

"Help... Help... me..."

The soldier wanted to scream, but could not find her voice. This girl was no longer human. She aimed her FAMAS at the abomination and pulled the trigger, but it produced no bullets. She fumbled with the weapon, racking the charging handle and replacing the magazine, but it looked like the firing pin was jammed. The girl continued to plea, her voice was desperate and chilling, drawing closer.

Soon, the soldier was face-to-face with the monstrosity, who started clutching the fabric of her MOPP suit with rotten fingers. Her pale skin started chip away like hot wax, revealing the blood-red bone underneath the dermis. The yellow mist started to permeate inside of the woman's suit, threatening to choke her with noxious fumes. It smelled like death. The stench did nothing to quell the horror in front of her, as the soldier's strength began to wane.

Then, there was a click at the back of her head. She let out a voiceless gasp. She could feel the touch of metal at the nape of her neck. The cold iron meshed with a sizzling heat from leftover powder.

It was a gun.

*BANG!*

Emmanuelle Pichon woke up thrashing on her bed. She was in her room, enveloped by darkness. Her body was drenched in sweat, as did the bedsheets. Her heart was racing fast, as if she just fought a desperate battle. The digital clock on the shelf told her that it was 3 o'clock in the morning. She was back to reality. After waiting for a few seconds to calm herself, she got up and went to the bathroom. She flicked the lights on and opened the faucet to wash her face. The nightmare was over. She prayed it would be the last time, but her conscience told her otherwise. It was unfair.

A single tear slid down her eye. She could still remember the girl's face, after all this time.

…

* * *

Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC), Fort Bragg, North Carolina  
0830 hours

Day Seven (Two weeks before Freedom Day)

…

"Our grid will span the entire venue, top to bottom…", Seamus pointed at the digital screen on the wall, overlaid with a map of Manhattan."...We're talkin' about 32 storeys and 120,000 square feet of contiguous space to cover. Vehicle checkpoints will be about a hundred yards away from the perimeter... Secret Service will post sniper teams at these points, here... and here."

Emma stared blankly from her seat and scribbled into her notepad as the team leader continued his lecture in front. Today was a general briefing of Team Rainbow's deployment to New York in a couple of weeks' time. Per Meghan's predictions, they would be deployed to the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit, the upcoming gathering of bigwigs from across the world. Almost a dozen elite counter-terrorism experts were gathered today at the meeting room, absorbing all the facts. _Madame_ Six was also present, accompanied by a couple of her staff. It was rare for the dark-skinned Director to attend the proceedings in the flesh; everyone could feel the strong aura she commanded.

Ethan, Meghan and a few others were absent from this room, presumably running through a few marksmanship tests, somewhere.

There was another twist. This morning, the operators were told to don their black fatigues and masks, rendering them all as faceless, nondescript men and women. A curious dress-code for a group meeting, but the imposed anonymity was due to their guest: Director Robert Treadway of the Department of Homeland Security. 'Director of Operations Coordination'. A big man. An outsider. He wanted to discus high-level, top secret information with them via a real-time vid-call, flashed in front for everyone to see.

The Frenchwoman let out a faint sigh. She needed a good distraction to erase this morning's nightmare from her brain, but the meeting demanded she remain in this room. She took down notes while it went on, not really paying attention. Her scribbles simply parroted what was said in front, with no care to distinguish which bits were and weren't important. She rested her cheek onto a propped up hand like a bored schoolgirl. Gilles Touré, sitting to her right, gave her a stern look. The expression from her old CQB instructor was enough to bid her to take the talk a little bit more seriously.

"Rainbow will be divided into three units, sir…", Seamus turned the bespectacled old man on a different screen. "…Alpha, Bravo will be joining the Response Element and assisting in the routine security sweeps... Charlie will be topside, overlooking the dignitaries' main route along along Queensboro Bridge and FDR Drive, together with the police."

"Mmhm. And… who exactly will be going?", Treadway asked. The background on the video feed showed that he was still in his office. "Should I expect your boys from England to tag along as well?"

"That's classified, Bob.", Six denied him a straight answer. "I can only promise 'my people' will be integrated into the Summit's current security plan. Nothing more."

"Hmph. Be that way. What about this… possibility of a 'dirty bomb' you mentioned earlier?", the man continued his inquiries.

"We've nothing concrete as of yet, but we see a feasible scenario. One of our engineers can tell you more about that."

With a nod from the boss lady, Monika Weiss rose from her seat and stepped into view, eager to discuss the results of her little side-project. She'd been tinkering with the bomb that Team Rainbow recovered from Bartlett all week. A few strands of her blond hair were hanging out of the balaclava.

"Thank you, ma'am.", she opened in her distinctive accent. She then turned her face to the other screen. "We took apart one of the chemical bombs used by the White Masks in last week's attack. With the proper know-how, we confirmed that it ist indeed possible to miniaturize these devices to bypass detection..."

She took out a briefcase from her seat and flicked it open. Resting it on the table, the case showed the familiar flaps and pouches that a security guard would typically find at a checkpoint. By pressing another button, however, the innocent-looking item suddenly revealed hidden compartments and recesses, specifically-shaped to accommodate a complex electronic device. It was a mock-up of the real thing, as best as the German policewoman could predict it would be.

"...As you can see here, this case has all the essential components: detonator, arming mechanism, explosive charge, und a 30-gram payload of Compound Z. Redundant systems are also intact, thus preventing EOD units from disarming it... Should you place a signal blocker behind the power supply, this bomb ist all but invisible to scanners as well."

She showcased what the rest of Rainbow already knew: Part Two of the Bartlett-attack could happen in two weeks. Treadway sighed and clasped his hands, distressed at the odds stacked against the good guys, which were higher than he'd hoped. Still, this man's organization had even more resources that Rainbow could use to ensure the Summit's success. Perhaps bringing an outsider into the loop was the right choice after all, even though it was also an incredibly risky move for Rainbow's part.

"My people will take appropriate measures…", Six added to Monika's presentation. "…But I'm counting on _your_ guys to do their job. Ask the NSA to run checks on everyone at the venue. The bell boys, the cooks, the security guards. Flag anybody with suspicious backgrounds and triple-check the inventory manifests... We need to cover all our bases to stop a device like this from being smuggled into the Summit…"

The grim prospect of a chemical weapon unleashed during the event was both humbling and frightening to consider. Team Rainbow had MOPP suits and decontamination gear on hand for this possibility, but there would definitely be a tremendous number of casualties for them to deal with. At such tight quarters, the death toll would rise into the hundreds, to say nothing of the potential victims. Diplomats, agency heads, journalists. A few of the masked operatives started to murmur their concerns to each other. Insufficient manpower. Too few resources. The lack of an emergency triage plan for the Summit. Despite her best efforts, Emma couldn't keep herself from overhearing their talk, bidding her to grow just as worried.

She started to recollect the scenes of Bartlett University- her comrades' ultimately futile effort to save innocent lives from callous and merciless killers. The memories of that battle have been occupying her dreams and even her waking hours as of late. Could she expect another source of nightmares? The anxiety wasn't a sign of shame nor weakness. She was not haunted by the people she killed that day; rather, it was the people she failed to save that weighed heavily on her conscience. Who would've thought that her time in America would give her another set of terrible memories to harbor? Memories that she did her best to hide with a smile and her usual cheeriness.

 _Focus_ _,_ _Emmanuelle. Focus._

"…Speaking of which…", Six continued. "…did Homeland Security look into Mr. Adam Kipper? The dossier we're building suggests that he went rogue not too long ago and joined-"

"Yes, yes. The DHS knows. His contract with us was terminated two years ago... I suggest you keep your mouth shut while we figure out what to do with this… rumor."

"Not a rumor. His name was in a document we retrieved from a biker gang in Hannover; a pit stop for the White Masks' supply network. He provided the Compound Z for the attack on Bartlett."

"This again? 'The bombs were sold by a terrorist cell in the Middle East'…", Treadway brushed her off. "…That's the story we told the press, and that's the story we're sticking with."

He was getting quite grumpy, avoiding the topic. But Six crossed her arms and glared at him, accusingly. She wasn't fazed by his attempt to steer away from the truth. As if she anticipated this kind of response from him. If ever the two of them had any history, it was definitely far from platonic.

"Bob. Is it really that hard to accept that one your own has turned traitor?"

"Even if it's true, it's just one guy. A consultant. And no, we have no idea what made him switch sides… I suggest you don't throw these accusations around; I have to protect my Department's integrity."

"How many more Americans have betrayed us, right under our noses?", she asked a hard question. "Aren't you supposed to keep tabs on them? Maybe we should leak this to the media and let them-"

"Goddammit, woman!", the man on the screen slammed his desk. "Do you even realize the shitstorm we'll stir if the public learned about this!? That a former government employee was responsible for killing those kids in Bartlett!? How about you deal with _your_ problems first before you tell me how to do my job!"

This man had no manners, Emma thought. So disrespectful, no matter how justified his outburst might be. She was immediately incensed by him.

"Are we seriously taking orders from that guy?", she muttered.

"Lower your voice **.** ", Gilles whispered back.

"Well, I don't like his tone!"

"With respect sir, we didn't call you to start castin' stones.", Seamus interrupted, trying to get the meeting back on track. "All we want is to get this Summit-business behind us so we can focus on our real mission."

"In all due time. We have to put the pieces together first…", the dark-skinned lady kept her calm.

She brought out the clicker and pointed it on the screen. With a button-press, the tactical map of Manhattan was immediately replaced by pictures and excerpts from intelligence reports, collated by Rainbow over the past few days. They illustrated a timeline, amounting to less than half a year, of the team's operations since it was deployed by the powers that be. It was hard to believe a lot has happened in just a short time.

"...Preliminary data from our friends in London and Potsdam confirms that the Euros we found in LA was laundered. They're part of multiple transactions made by Mr. Kipper over the last few months... Most likely to fund large-scale operations all across the Western Hemisphere. Not only that, he and Mr. Fausse been working with local groups for their own ends. Triads, bikers, America's True Patriots…"

The next picture was a series of mugshots: deceased terrorists and those still on the loose. It was a network. Treadway was not at all surprised.

"What does this have to do with-"

" _Before_ that, we faced attacks on London and Abidjan last month...", the boss lady interrupted Treadway again."...plus one in Hamburg more than two months ago… We also got sporadic reports of other bombings planned in far as Krakow and Seoul."

"…"

"It's a full-scale mobilization, if I ever saw one. They're probing us for weaknesses, Bob. If the attack on Freedom Day will come, it'll be much, much worse than we think. If you want my task force to be in on board, I expect the White House to do the same."

"Strong words, Director…", Treadway smiled rather mockingly. "...But do you have anything besides 'preliminary data'? You can't expect the President to sanction an op based on hunches and what-ifs alone."

For a third time, _Madame_ Six refused to indulge him.

"...Regardless if we're right or not, it's all the more important for us to find the terrorists' base of operations. Cut the head of the snake before it bites… I don't suppose you can tell us something about that? I've heard nothing from the boys on the ground."

Grumbling to himself, the bespectacled man on the screen took out and opened a folder from his desk, filled with all sorts of papers papers, fastened together by a clip. Presumably, they were status reports of the on-going manhunt for the White Masks. The folder itself was emblazoned with a circular seal and an eagle in the middle; the emblem of Homeland Security. It seemed that American markings hardly steered from the norm, Emma thought.

"Federal agencies had a tip that Leonard Fausse and his boys had set up shop somewhere in Oregon a few years ago. The FBI and the ATF believe that our terrorist-friends are still there too."

"So how do you want Rainbow to play this?", Six crossed her arms. "Do you want us to gear up for another incursion?"

"Just keep your people ready for the Summit. From here on out, JSOC will be running support for the locals until you're told otherwise. No adventures. Is that clear?"

The order was a surprise, sending silent shocks to all but the sternest person in the meeting room. Was Team Rainbow ordered to stand down? It would be a monumental first if that was the case.

"Hmph. Do I have a choice?"

"I'll take that as a yes, then. Keep me posted."

With that, the vid-call at the digital screen immediately went to black. The irritable codger was off the air, thank goodness, taking a huge thorn from everyone's necks. They could finally remove the masks on their faces and let their guard down. Some people in the room mixed their sighs of relief with unbridled laughter, amused at their guest's bad manners. Others were more stone-faced, reviewing the notes that they just took down. The Frenchwoman was on the latter camp; she realized that her scribbles turned out to be quite okay, if a bit messy. She told herself to organize them later, as she didn't have much on her schedule this morning anyway.

"Charming li'l bugger…", the tall Scotsman told his boss. "…I take it was quite an experience working with him, ma'am?"

"Oh, you don't even know the half of it, Cowden."

Six grinned for a bit then motioned to his two staffers. After a quick chat, she turned her attention to the maskless men and women under her employ. They were all eager to learn their next orders.

"That settles it, people. I want you all to review the Summit's security plan carefully. You know what that means: practice runs, shooting exercises, the works... I also want minimum operational readiness, just in case something happens."

"Yes, ma'am.", was their collective reply.

"…In the meantime, I need to speak with Castellano. Do you know where she is?"

"Hangar Two, back in the airfield.", Seamus replied succinctly. "I believe she's running some of the lads through a weapons drill at the moment."

"Right. That'll be all. Enjoy the rest of your day."

It was a tall order, as far as Emma was concerned. She held back an ironic laugh. She needed to get some air. Or perhaps a change of scenery. As she got up from her desk, she ignored Gilles's call for her to join him for a quick chat with the rest of the team. She already had a destination in mind when she made her way out of the door. Besides, she had a few things to take care of down there anyway.

"I'll take you down there, ma'am. I'm headed to the Airfield myself."

"Thank you, Pichon."

…

* * *

Pope Army Air Field, Fort Bragg North Carolina  
Hangar Two

…

One couldn't help but wonder to how a bunch of people managed to wrestle this place from the Army's selfish hands. As with any other facility in Bragg, Hangar Two at Pope Field was seldom lent to anyone, except other American personnel. This building was, and most likely still is, a maintenance area for JSOC's support aircraft. A premium space for top-tier hardware. When Team Rainbow arrived, however, it was quickly converted into a shooting range, whereas the neighboring Hangar One became a makeshift rallying area for the guys. Both were most likely done at the Director's behest. Panes of bulletproof glass were propped up in strategic places, while the walls were lined with sound-absorbent material to muffle gunshots.

On a prone position behind sandbags, peering through the 2.5x rifle scope, Ethan identified about ten humanoid targets laid in front of him, some 50 yards away. This morning's test was designed to gauge his accuracy and reaction time. He only had a single 10-round magazine, which he promptly loaded into his 417, mounted on a bipod. He flicked the safety off and rested his finger on the trigger. He was ready.

He better be. Meghan wanted to see him in action as well.

"Try not to fuck this up, Ace.", she challenged him over the radio. "Or should I expect something less from a D-boy like you?"

"…"

This woman definitely talked like a SEAL, he thought. Sadly, thanks to his blunder with Leonard Fausse not too long ago, there was another reason why she sounded so condescending. She still hasn't forgiven him. At least, not completely.

*beep!*

"Go!"

Ethan's brain sprung into action with the frogwoman's cue; blocking out all other thoughts save for his rifle and his targets. Ahead of him, the dummies with the bulls-eyes started darting up and down, left and right, like a fancy shooting gallery. He needed to take them all out in less than 20 seconds. With his training, muscle memory, and years of field experience to draw from, the former Delta sniper took out the targets as fast as his triggerfinger allowed him to.

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

One target went down with a center mass hit. Then another. Then another. Each bullet released was followed by a calm breath and well-drilled, hand-to-eye coordination. The systematic shooting went down like clockwork. Oddly, Ethan felt a tinge of elation, knowing that he was back into doing what he was best at. Everyone in the range watched in bated breath at his performance.

*Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!*

The hangar echoes the loud reports of rifle fire. If the shooter didn't have his earplugs on, he would have been deafened by his own weapon after the first few shots. But even then, he didn't worry. He was used to this role. The recoil on his shoulder and the strong beating in his chest were both familiar. He didn't bother to count how many targets he downed, as everything was a reflex. Rainbow brought him on board as a sharpshooter- he sorely didn't want them to doubt his abilities. Unlike what happened in Los Angeles.

*Bang! Bang! Bang! Click!*

And just as he was getting into a steady rhythm, the rifle fired its last round. The test was already over as quickly it began. Ten shots, translating to ten confirmed hits, much to Meghan's surprise. There was still eleven seconds on the clock. The shooter formed a satisfied grin in his face as he stood up. It was like he was back with the old Army Marksmanship Unit, albeit with zero applause and fanfare. Still, he took silent pride in his work, and he loved it more when his peers appreciated it as well.

"Holy shit…", she muttered over the radio. "…Not bad."

"Thanks for the compliment… I reckon that means we're good now?", he radioed back.

"Tch. Fuck off.", Meghan bitterly remarked. "I'm not yet done with you."

"*sigh* Your funeral."

Taking her harsh words in stride, Ethan walked away from his firing position, carrying the 417 on its pistol grip. He exchanged nods with another man, Sébastien 'Buck' Côté, whose turn had finally come up. He was flanked by a burly Russian of the same height and a short, Asian woman. 'Kapkan' and 'Frost', the rest called them. They donned the same black fatigues with white patches, as he did. Soon after, the shooting resumed. The stipulations for the Canadian were the same: one magazine, ten targets, twenty seconds or less. The only difference was that Sébastien was equipped with a different weapon, an accurized FAL with an ACOG. That, and he had the company of two friends, supporting him in absolute silence. Something that the previous participant lacked.

With a weary sigh, he scanned for a desk or a chair to sit on, with which to watch the action from afar. He only saw one quiet little corner in the entire building. He balked at the prospect of a lonely half-four, but that was the price he had to pay for 'holding the idiot ball' a few days ago. And so, he passed the time the only way he knew how. He set the rifle down on the desk and started inspecting it, thinking about how to maximize the rifle's lethal potential. He would probably experiment with a muzzle break and a match-trigger system later. He tried it with his old rifle in Afghanistan, with mixed results.

A funny thought came to mind; if Gabe or Omar were still alive, they would've snatched an EBR for him at the drop of the hat. Wily bastards. Their deaths still resounded in Ethan's heart. Sometimes in his sleep, he could vividly remember the scenes from the fateful day, like a looping film reel. He could still recall the gunfire, the frantic radio calls from his friends, and the ear-ringing explosion that killed Gabe. He could still feel the pain of searing shrapnel piercing his skin. He wanted to think that his team would've been proud of his survival. He wanted to make up for their sacrifice by serving honorably. Serving with a new unit. And yet, it felt like he failed them in his first mission with Team Rainbow. Leonard Fausse. Adam Kipper. The Engineer. There were so many names that Ethan wanted to place the blame on. As if that would do him anything good.

"Already on your time off, Ace?", a female voice called out to him. "How did it go?"

A familiar, French accent broke his train of thought. He turned around, and saw a young woman approach, donned in a dark uniform and clutching a gym bag. Both the short brown hair and the happy face were dead giveaways.

"Oh, Twitch. Fancy seeing you here…", he replied. "…I did well, I guess. What happened in the meeting?"

"Nothing you don't already know. We'll be deployed at the Summit. We have to 'maintain readiness', 'keep running drills', blah blah blah…"

"Good to know I didn't miss out on much."

Emma took a seat beside his desk and dropped the bag on top of the table with a heavy clang. It dawned on the man that she brought it from Hangar One next door. Team Rainbow's guns were stored in there.

"And how are you doing with Meghan? Does she still hate you?"

"What do you think?", he shrugged.

"Oh, good grief. She's such a prima donna sometimes... But I'm sure she'll come around sooner or later."

"I hope so. I don't know about you, but it's not healthy to stay in your intel officer's bad side. They can screw you over your pay. Or worse."

"Are you speaking from personal experience?", Emma giggled. She was replied to with a smile.

"Something like that."

Ethan was so engrossed with the chitchat that he failed to notice that the Frenchwoman had a companion behind her, walking towards a different table. Rainbow Six. The dark-skinned lady didn't exchange greetings with the people in the Hangar, as she made her way to Meghan at the control booth. They started talking something rather important, judging by the blondie's serious expression and the other woman's gestures. Their voice was muffled by the gunfire in the building. Ethan wondered what they were yammering about.

It wasn't his business, that's for sure. While he tended to his own, his female companion took out the contents of her bag. It was packed with a box-full of M18 claymore mines, a small toolkit, and a number of miscellanies. It also contained a couple of rifles: one of which was another bipod-mounted 417, presumably the ex-GIGN's personalized weapon, with its dark blue camouflage and sound suppressor. The other gun was a piece of hardware that Ethan thought he'd never see up close in his life. He was astonished, his mouth slightly gaping at the sight.

"Nice _clarion_ (bugle) you got there. Custom-made?", he asked.

" _Oui_. It's a FAMAS F2. 5-5-6. Very rare. I got my hands on it before I left the _Armee_."

"May I?"

"Sure."

He held the black bullpup weapon with careful hands. It was definitely an old French military-issue, judging by the markings, but with quite a few improvements: a lightweight trigger, an improved charging handle, and a modified magazine well that can accept 30-round STANAG magazines. The scratches and dings on the receiver proved that this gun had seen its share of gritty action over the years.

"Where are your drones, huh?", he asked her while tending to his weapon. "I thought you and your, uh, 'babies' were inseparable?"

"Hah! Drones are cool, but a girl also needs to take care of her guns."

Her words mirrored the way she handled the FAMAS. Like an experienced craftsman, she removed the pins and bolts of the rifle with just her fingers. She inspected each part carefully, before applying whatever care they deserved. A squirt of oil here, a brush there. Such serious attention to detail, all the while she hummed a faint singsong tune, akin to a stereotypical tinkerer.

This woman was such a curious character, Ethan thought. Carefree and impish, but her heart was in the right place. She was raised in an affluent neighborhood in Nancy. She had all of the trappings to be an outstanding intellectual. To be a successful entrepreneur with her brainchild robots. Yet, for some reason, she joined the military instead, risking her genius-level brain from getting blown off in a battlefield. Only a lunatic would willingly put themselves in danger for a thankless job, if they had other options. More so if those options didn't involve direct threats to life and limb.

And that's the thing that piqued his curiosity. Admittedly, he never really met a lot of female soldiers in his time. There was Emily, ex-Army technician turned CIA agent, who was as grim and dour as everyone else sharing her job description. Tina 'Frost' Lin Tsang was as straitlaced as any Royal Canadian Air Force officer that Ethan knew. Meghan's such a full-fledged Navy SEAL that it was practically her gender. And then there's _this_ girl, sharing a desk with him.

"Hey, Em. Mind if I ask you a... personal question?"

"Shoot."

"No offense... but why did you join up? I never pegged someone like you to be a soldier."

At that moment, her eyes turned into a serious frown. Or she was probably messing with him; it was never easy to tell.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is it because I'm a woman?"

"Yeah- I mean no! No!", he stammered. "That's not what I was getting at."

"Are you certain, _Monsieur_ Mallory? If you're warming up for a 'stay in the kitchen' joke, I will be very disappointed."

This young engineer pulled no stops with her poking. She knew exactly how to make her colleagues uncomfortable. For the first since high school, Ethan felt all the more awkward talking to a girl. Of course, he kept his cool and hid his apprehension behind a stern face.

"That's not the point.", he resumed . "I totally get why someone like Meghan is here. She makes sense."

"Oooh, so you're singling _me_ out? I'm flattered."

"Ugh, cut the crap. You know what I'm talking about.", Ethan felt his patience wear thin. "You're smart. You're still in your twenties. You know a lot about computers and robots... You can set yourself up for life at NASA or MIT with those skills... And yet, here you are."

To his surprise, the woman suddenly burst into a round of unbridled laughter. It wasn't loud enough to distract everyone from the shooting, but it succeeding in turning a few heads.

"Oh… _Mon dieu_ **,** you sound like my mom!"

"I'm serious."

Emma shook her head as she laid down the rifle onto the desk. The laughter went on a bit more, until it was slowly replaced by a long, uninterrupted silence. The man didn't anticipate that kind of fleeting emotion. For a moment, he wondered if he pushed the wrong button or if he asked her an incredibly hard question. Then, her expression changed. Sullen and meek, it was something far more somber than a while ago. More genuine. She avoided meeting his eyes with hers, while the man harbored doubts about his choice of words. It didn't change the fact that he wanted an answer from her. A soldier's motivations for serving were hardly creative, after all. Perhaps her answer would prove him wrong. Perhaps his ignorance would only dig a deeper hole for them both.

"It's not the first time I heard that.", she continued. "My mother nags me to quit the GIGN every time I go home. 'Too much danger for too little pay', she says…"

She started an impression of her parent, complete with an elderly voice and a stupid accent.

"…'My dear Emmanuelle. Why can't you be like your sister? I heard she's doing well for herself in Paris. Have you talked to that handsome man in Sentier? Have you sent them your resume?'…Shit, she'll probably lose her mind if she learned I joined another unit."

"Ain't nothing wrong with a career change.", Ethan told her. "I think she just wants you to make the most out of your talents. Six-digit salaries, awards, a doctorate, you know…"

"Maybe, but there's more to life than those things, you know?", she sighed. "I already know what it's like to be well-off. If I wanted an early retirement, I could sell the patent for my shock drones and enjoy the royalties..."

"So... what's stopping you?"

At the moment, she dropped everything she was doing. She sighed and looked in front, blankly staring at the walls lined with white foam. The normally jovial young woman was suddenly deep in thought. She didn't even turn to look at the firing range, which was still ringing with shots like a broken record. She wasn't disturbed by them. Her mind was focused on something else.

"I don't know… It's just…", she muttered. Her voice was softer. "...It doesn't sit well with me to have an easy life… not when I know that thousands of people are living in hell, everyday."

"What do you mean?"

"The things I've seen, _what people like us_ have seen... they change you forever. Combat, death, consequences."

Ethan nodded in agreement. He'd also seen his fair share of hell. Whole villages massacred, dead children holding their dead mothers. He was more bothered by the carnage left behind by other people than the ones he and his friends were responsible for. Orders were orders. In a way, that made him a terrible person.

Perhaps this girl also did the same? It was unlikely. Knowing who she was, she wouldn't be the kind of person who'd kidnap a child to find a warlord. There was a sense of... honesty in her words and deeds. She'd shoot a gun and poke fun at her friends' expense, but she would never do something despicable to get the job done. And yet, it seemed she still paid a high price.

"No argument there.", Ethan empathized. "You have to be a different breed in this line of work. Not a saint."

"Hah! I guess that means I'm not cut out for this after all."

Her voice broke from that burst of sarcasm.

"What do you mean?"

"…There's this girl… from Bartlett, last week… a freshman… She was one of the first victims of the attack… She was still breathing when I found her. We gave her first aid and moved on… I thought she was gonna make it…""

Her eyes started to redden.

"...She died two hours later... her lungs collapsed, despite everything we did… We… 'I' was too late to save her."

It was clear that she was trying her damnedest to hold back the floodgates of tears. Ethan also struggled to find words that would cheer her up. He felt stupid and ashamed that he let the conversation steer in this direction. The shooting in the range only made it harder for him to concentrate. As it turned out, this place was the worst choice for a little heart to heart discussion.

But he completely understood what she felt. He knew what it was like to come into grips with humanity's worst. That moment when the unwavering belief that good things happen to good people would be shattered. It always took a strong character to hold onto the belief, willingly, and prevail amidst mounting evidence of otherwise. He wanted to tell her that she prevailed in that regard. If only to make her feel better. Right now, however, she needed a listener.

"…Horrible, cruel shit like that reminds me that the world is a terrible place…", she added. "…and I'm part of the problem, if I didn't do something about it."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

"No. After what happened… I'm even more sure I made the right choice. To be here."

There was a lot of dead air following her words. She also noticed that their talk wasn't doing either of them any favors, so she resumed working on her gun with a sigh and shake of the head. She wiped her eyes with her hands when she thought her colleague wasn't looking. It was a sly move, but Ethan pretended not to see through her façade. He could only imagine the nightmares she still harbored.

He was glad to know that there was at least one person in the team, who would always ready to remind them about what was important. About what was right. About what they were really fighting for. In this line of work, it's far too easy for even those with a moral compass to let anger guide their actions. Far too easy for them to cast blame on evildoers, rather than accept the inevitability of failure. Ethan knew this more than anyone. As much as he wanted to let go off his friends' deaths, he could still feel faint embers burning in his heart.

It was probably best if they talked about something else.

"What about you?", Emma changed the topic. "Why did you join up, huh? What is Sergeant Ethan Mallory doing at this place?"

"Oh me? It's nothing special."

"Come on, don't be like that."

"I'm not kidding. I don't have a storied life like yours."

"Try me.", she dared.

It was Ethan's turn to drop everything he was doing. He sorely didn't want to open up to her, but perhaps her curiosity deserved some satisfaction. That and she indulged him with the talking, it was only right and proper for him to return the favor. And so, he started his brief story with a sigh escaping his lips.

"Alright... Where to start? I'm an Army brat… My family's been serving since... God knows how long. I joined the Rangers like my Dad did. And his dad before him… It's been a tough act to follow…"

In the middle of speech, he suddenly pressed the bolt release of the rifle, to test if the pin was working properly. It was also to get his point across: soldiery ran strong in his veins.

"…Eleven tours in the Middle East and Africa. I was recruited into Delta, then the Special Activities Division… Now I'm here."

He turned to his said and looked at her again. Her cheek was resting on her hand. She was much more relaxed and comfortable than a few seconds ago. The wry smile on her face was slowly returning, as if she was eager and anxious to learn more. It was… a relief.

"Any family?", she asked.

"Ex-wife. And a daughter. They're in Long Island right now, living with my mother-in-law."

The answer caused her eyes widen. She suddenly clutched his shoulder in surprise.

"Hold on, hold on… you're a dad!?"

"Yep.", he grinned slightly. "Only one kid. I would've wanted more, but then the divorce happened. 'Irreconcilable differences'..."

" _Je suis désolé_ (I'm sorry).", she consoled him. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

She asked her question with a cheery smile on her face. Talk about a sudden whiplash of the mood. But she was feeling better now, so there was no reason to turn her down. Ethan brought out a photograph from his wallet. It was a picture taken of a family vacation, somewhere upstate. A husband, a wife, and a little girl huddled together with smiles on their faces. It was a window to a different time, when all was well in the world. Emma's smile brightened when she was handed the family portrait. The child with the braces and the blonde hair especially caught her attention.

"Jennifer Anne.", he pointed. "Good kid. Very smart."

"Aww, she's cute! She has your eyes!"

"That's the only thing she got from me.", he laughed. "Unless she also wants to be a soldier someday... That'll be another thing the wife will kill me for…"

Among a great many things, he noted. He reminded himself that he originally wanted to join Rainbow for the money. The alimony, the mother's medical bills, the daughter's education were definitely too much for his paygrade in the Army. But after everything that happened in Witch Hunt, Rainbow became a second chance. To do right, to serve well, to be a good man. At least that's what he wanted to tell himself.

He brought back the picture to his wallet.

"…I wanna believe I'm making this world a better place. For her and her mother… I hope I'm doing a good job at it."

"I wish I could say the same.", she sighed.

"Hey, who knows, maybe we'll get a chance to prove it soon, eh? Together."

Emma turned to him with hopeful, green eyes. Her lips, previously saddened and grim, returned to a fanciful smirk that he knew her for. Then, it turned into the most sheepish smile she could muster. A mocking grin to demean a stupid remark.

"Hmm. 'Together', huh?", she teased.

Another brief round of laughter ensued, much to Ethan's chagrin. But it was alright. The levity he shared was not one-sided as he thought it'd be. He didn't realize how much he helped her. She had a better chance of sleeping well tonight.

The chatting between them had drowned out the noise in the background. They didn't hear the final gunshot, the last bullet from the marksmanship test in the firing range. They only returned to reality when Sébastien and his companions called to Meghan for an assessment, only to find her still embroiled with her stern talk with Six, much to their wonder. It was made abundantly clear that they were talking about something quite serious. As expected between a Director and one of her intelligence officers. There was an ominous sign somewhere that Ethan tried his best to find, but to no avail.

…

* * *

Gangnam District, Seoul, South Korea  
2307 hours (KST)

At the same time.

…

The white van fifty meters away had been still for quite sometime, parked along the street. There was no traffic up ahead. The driver must be talking to someone on the phone. Or maybe he was waiting for something. Or maybe he realized that another car had been tailing them since he drove from the port. Only three of those things were true, but the possibilities were endless in a job like this. The woman sitting beside the steering wheel suddenly wished she planted a bug on the van when she had the chance. Alas, her window closed very quickly.

Things would've been different if her squadron brought more of their old friends in this operation, like those ferocious SEAL bastards that they used to work with. That blonde named Meghan Castellano, for example, would've done something smart, like hack into the city's security cameras and piggyback on their video feeds. That _laska_ was actually a smart one, not like her physique would suggest. A degree in computer science meant a lot in the military these days. Fine arts, on the other hand...

"Ela, _odłóż słuchawkę_ (put down your phone)…", her earpiece rang. The voice was female. "… _Skup się na misji_ (Focus on the mission)."

Once again, she felt her blood boil.

" _Obserwuj cel_ , _nie mnie_." ("Watch the target, not me.")

Squad-Alfa was off-site, manning the UAVs. Elżbieta Bosak, meanwhile, was in the pursuit vehicle, together with the rest of Squad-Brawo. Her job was to follow the white van with the plate number that matched what the Korean Intelligence Service gave to them. A handful of Korean Army units were on standby for support. All in all, the setup was quite similar to that GROM-SEAL joint op from a few years ago, albeit with a smaller timeframe and even fewer resources.

Playing cat and mouse in a foreign country, with little backup, was an incredibly risky move even for the Polish commandos. Not only did they have to worry about being discovered by the enemy, they also had to worry about blowing their cover in public. It would be a political nightmare for her government if such a clandestine operation was exposed. But Hong Kong turned out to be alright. And the Triad leader, Goh Daoming, literally turned into a dead lead, so they had no choice but to go to Plan B. Everything to prevent an attack on the Fatherland, as they always did.

Ela leaned back on her seat, prolonging the waiting game. This mission would most definitely be her last. After that, she'd have her papers sorted out and file for permanent transfer to England. Meghan said she'd vouch for her if she accepted the offer from the 'Rainbow Program'. It was very tempting, to say the least: twice the danger for more than twice the pay. If her father was here, he-

" _Cel jest w ruchu._ (Target's on the move).", the radio interrupted her thoughts.

Such perfect timing. After a long stillness, the white van started to drive off into the neon-lit road. It prompted everyone in the car to get back into the game. Fingers locked at the steering wheel and the guns, whichever was appropriate. With luck, the van would finally lead them to their hideout. Then the _real_ mission could start.

" _Przyjąłem_ (Roger that).", Ela replied. " _Brawo ruszamy_ (Bravo is moving). "

She would have to muse about her life at another time.

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments** **:** Sigh, I missed my deadline yet again... Anyway, I wrote this chapter as a sort of 'breather episode' for those who wanted to read more about Ethan and Twitch; I hope y'all liked it. The next chapter, sadly, is going to involve the Korean Ops, so I'm afraid I have to put off with this one until they're released. On the flipside, this will give me time to focus on other stories, so please stay tuned! :)


	11. Chapter 10 - Half a World Away

.

* * *

 **Chapter Ten - "Half a World Away"**

* * *

Two hours later

…

A black KUH-1 Surion hovered hundreds of feet above Yongsan District. Peering out of the fuselage, one could see the busy streets of Seoul below, nightlife at its finest. Throngs of people heading home, hanging around, or simply going about their business. None of them were aware of the covert mission taking place. Hopefully it would stay that way, because the next few hours would decide the fates of the dozen heavily armed men and women inside the helicopter's cabin. They'd been watching the slow-paced action for a while since it started in Incheon, all the way to Gangnam.

At their PDAs was a 3D-map for reference, which was constantly updated with real-time information. Drone feeds confirmed that the white van they were following had just entered Mok Myeok's underground parking area. Its occupants, presumably, had dismounted and gone inside the premises, their intentions completely unknown. Beyond the perimeter, GROM's vehicle was parked only a short distance away, keeping out of sight.

"Ela.", Zofia Bosak radioed the pursuit team. " _Ilu pasażerów w pojeździe_?" ("How many people were in the vehicle?")

" _Nie wiem. Okna w aucie były barwione_." ("I don't know. The van's windows were tinted.")

" _Kurwa_ _…_ _Utrzymać pozycję_. (Fuck… Hold your position.)", she ordered. " _Niech nikt nie wchodzi do budynku_." ("Make sure nobody else enters the building.")

" _Tak, tak. Nie musisz mi powtarzać_ _.._ _._ " ("Yeah, yeah. You don't have to tell me twice...")

With one last sip of her favorite energy drink, Grace 'Dokkaebi' Nam adjusted her glasses and continued fumbling with her laptop. She smirked sheepishly while the pale-skinned lady seated in front of her continued to talk in her native tongue, unaware that her speech was being decoded by an auto-translator in a different dialogue box. It was obviously rude for the hacker to eavesdrop on the Polish woman, but she wanted to know why Captain Won agreed to join forces with these _waegukin_. Foreigners. GROM and White Tigers working together was practically unheard of before, and it showed. The relationship forced upon them this week had been uneventful so far, as gleamed from the silence inside the helicopter's cramped space. Two sets of people, donning different uniforms, separated by mere inches of distance. White folk in green and brown camo, opposite another group of soldiers in jet-black sneaking suits- the best of the 707th Special Mission Battalion.

Among the latter's number was Grace: a skunk-striped, pig-tailed hellion, with a portable computer on her lap and a custom SMG-12 under her seat. Her chic glasses reflected the bright monitor; her focus was unbroken even as the rotor blades chopped incessantly above her head. She processed walls of code in milliseconds, even while listening to a pop song beating from her earphones. Her fingers pattered against the imaginary keyboard, almost syncing with the drumming beats. Soon, she was humming to herself in a louder voice as the crescendo neared, turning a couple heads from her seatmates. She was full of smiles and confidence; one could almost accuse her of slacking off in the middle of a job. She gave zero fucks to such slander, just as she paid no attention to everyone else inside the cabin.

"Yes!", she cheered for herself.

She was working on another dialogue box: the custom smiley-face on the screen blipped a bright yellow, indicating a successful breach. After hours of piggybacking on dummy servers to cover her tracks, she finally succeeded in bypassing one firewall in the London Data Center, thousands of miles away. Only two more to go. It was rather a small victory, just worthy of another smirk. The hacker glanced to her right side, briefly looking for another soul to confide her success with. Disappointingly, the only face she saw was the cold stare of Chul Kyung Hwa, hidden behind a lifeless ballistic mask. 'Vigil'. His visage reeked of disapproval and chastisement, like that of a doting parent. 'This is not the time to indulge in petty games', he'd likely say.

She wanted none of it. He knew better than anyone that she could manage two jobs at once. She removed her earphones to get her point across.

" _mwol_ _bwa_?" ("The hell are you looking at?")

The man looked away, sighing to himself. He was the only other person in the helicopter who knew what she was really doing. Grace had been on a self-imposed challenge for the past week: eliminate the last levels of encryption protecting the servers of the so-called 'Rainbow Program'. She heard the name before, in one of the Tigers' joint training exercises with the Brits. The shadowy nature of the group had always piqued her interest, and last she heard was they were in a recruitment drive. The name went off the grid a few years ago, but references to a certain 'Team Rainbow' recently popped up in the Korean Army's Cybershield network, time-stamped two weeks ago. Covert troop deployments, requests for aerial recon over at Seoul, top-secret messages between USAG Yongsan, Special Air Service, and the American Department of Defense. It was like this Rainbow-thing suddenly popped from the darkest depths of the Web with a lot of red flags. Where had they been? What the heck had they been up to recently?

"Hey, Dokaybe.", the radio came to life again with Ela's voice. The Slavic undertone was a dead giveaway.

"Dokkaebi…", Grace replied, in the most bored-out-of-her-skull voice she could muster. "…Doe-ke-bee."

"Whatever. Are you sure you can get my friends inside?"

"What kind of question is that? I won't be here if I can't, now will I?", she boasted.

"*sigh* Yes or no? Sarcasm does not suit you well, you nerd."

Nerd. Noting the insult, Grace immediately indulged in her childish side, interpreting Ela's vitriol for a dare that she was more than happy to oblige. Maintaining a cheerful, mocking face to no one in particular, the White Tiger tech specialist pulled out her portable computer again and navigated the menus with her fingertips. A list of close proximity, short-messaging channels and ZRTP codes popped up; one of them belonged to the grumpy soldier-girl sitting in a car somewhere below. A finger-swipe and a button press later, the smiley blipped again, and a faint chiming tune rang in the background, loud enough to hear in the radio conversation. It caught the caller off guard. The hacker smiled to herself, imagining the other woman's panicked response. Sweet revenge in less than ten seconds.

"There. I just changed your phone's settings… And by the way, your team's security protocols are sooo 2007. This 'nerd' recommends you get an upgrade."

"Why you little-"

"Knock it off, Ela.", Zofia joined in the chatter. "Just keep your eyes on the target building; don't let Dokkaebi get into your head."

Grace held her hands up in defense.

"Hey I am only trying to help, madam…"

The _waegukin_ wore an annoyed look, visible from behind her cool shades. She was trying her damnedest not to sound unprofessional.

"Miss Nam, I know you do not like my second-in-command.", she went on. "But please try not to piss her off too much? I want to avoid a... 'diplomatic incident' between our governments."

"Sure, sure…"

"And for the record, we're placing our safety in your hands, so I share Ela's concern... I'm really hoping you're as good as your Captain said you are. Understand?"

The hacker gave a nonchalant nod, much to Zofia's quiet exasperation. The beanie-wearing specialist wanted to tell her that 'safety' depended on how good the mission's intelligence data was to begin with. For the first time in quite a while, the Tigers were working entirely on someone else's info. Just how credible was GROM's source for this mission was anybody's guess, but it nonetheless brought some level of doubt and caution from the more experienced commandos. The Intelligence Service's endorsement didn't help matters.

"Two minutes to insertion.", the pilot announced.

It was almost time. Grace closed her laptop and placed it back on her chest rig. Eyes of mischief narrowed and became more serious, as she recalled standard operating procedures for a rooftop insertion via fast-rope. She checked her gear and ticked off boxes in her head: combat knife, SMG mags, smoke grenades, extra batteries, and comms equipment. From this point on, she would answer to the callsign 'Tiger-Two'.

"Okay everyone, let us go over this again…", Zofia asked for the cabin's attention. "…This is a subterfuge mission: get in, recover intel, and get out. We have an unknown number of probable hostiles, but _nobody_ fires a shot unless we are attacked…"

Their destination was near. Mok Myeok Tower, located smack dab in the middle of Yongsan District, where the passengers of the unknown white van had slipped into earlier tonight. This observation and communications tower of high-grade steel and concrete was about 770 feet tall, with ten-plus floors for occupancy. Has a museum, a bar and restaurant, plus several office spaces for different companies. It was owned by one of Seoul's largest media conglomerates, who were... 'encouraged' to share the Tower's floorplans for this operation. How, when, and why their piece of private property had been associated to a suspected terrorist cell was anyone's guess. But the Intelligence Service was convinced that the teams had the right target. Best hypothesis was that the men they were following were expat Americans, hired as subcontractors for the new Lotus Festival attraction, which the place was known to host every year.

In any event, the objectives of the White Tigers were clear: assist the GROM troops in retrieving intel, then secure the site for extraction. The tech specialist had other duties.

"...Dokkaebi will be our eyes. Once security is down, we'll sweep the offices and the adjacent rooms… Move fast, move efficiently, and remember your sectors."

Everyone bobbed their heads. The silence briefly resumed, only to be broken when the pilot informed them to ready up.

"One minute!"

Grace responded like an automaton, uncharacteristically so, and brought out the suppressed 9mm machine pistol under her seat. No more monkeying around. With the weapon on hand, she removed the lens covers of the mounted 1.5x holographic, before racking the charging handle and unraveling the sling. She tucked away her glasses into another pouch; she would need proper eye protection tonight. She started pulling out other things from her seat and wearing them on her person: safety goggles, climbing gloves, and spare hooks for rappelling. The man with the black mask did the same, as with the rest of Tiger-One. Soon enough, the image of a cocky little goblin dressed in black was no more, replaced by an elite commando of the 707th, in full battle gear.

"I hope your intel is good, madam…", she chided. "…I don't want to die in my hometown tonight."

"Just stick to the plan. Hopefully we won't have to shoot anyone once we're inside."

The other woman followed her words with a faint smile, the smallest of reassurances. But it only served as a final reminder that they were about to venture into a dangerous situation, despite the appearance of a simple snatch-and-grab. The men in the white van were not just any other persons of interest- they were terrorists, presumably armed to the teeth. To think they've infiltrated one of Seoul's tourist spots, doing what sinister men are known to do…

"Anything… specific you want me to look for in there?", Grace asked.

"Whatever you can find about a terrorist attack in Poland. Cash transfers, communiques, marching orders… If you find a plan to bomb Krakow, that will be even better."

"See, I still don't get that part.", the Korean scratched her head. "Why will a group based out of Seoul target _your_ country? It's half a world away."

"I don't know. But the CIA says that the terrorists may be using Seoul as a logistics nexus, as they did in Hong Kong."

"C-I-A, huh? Oh this should be good…"

They were perhaps the shadiest of all the Americans, as far as the hacker knew. But their involvement was a moot point, considering the more pressing matters she had on her plate. She recalled Mok Myeok's encryption keys and data points, and how much room for error she was allowed. Looking at the timer on her wrist, she estimated some 20 minutes at best for the break-in and the exfil. It suddenly dawned on her that their schedule was incredibly tight. Would everything go according to plan? Only one way to find out.

Her other quest to breach the Rainbow Program's servers would have to be put to the back burner for now.

"Green light! Green light!", the pilot made one last announcement.

Upon hearing the order, the helicopter crew chief opened the cabin's doors, inviting a cold gush of midnight wind to ruffle everyone's clothes. Outside was a starless sky, lit only by the endless neon lamps and headlights of the cityscape below. The helicopter hovered directly above the flat, concrete surface of the Tower's rooftop, separated by no more than twenty feet in height. After a thumbs-up from the chief, Zofia lowered an assault line out of the fuselage, and then prompted her point man to fastrope down. The White Tigers did the same thing, on their door. Vigil was the first one out, followed by another man, and another. Grace was the last. It took her less than five seconds for her to rappel from the helicopter and get to the ground, joining her comrades with weapons at the ready. The mission timer clocked in at 19:59.

"Brawo, this is Alfa. We are at the roof, southern section. All squads upright."

"Affirmative, Zo.", Ela radioed back.

"Ela, I'm switching drone control over to you… Confirm you have a visual on the rooftop?"

Five seconds' worth of silence went by.

"Squad-Brawo has positive signal, scanning the other levels… Maintenance access is clear… Observation deck is clear… No activity on the lower floors."

"Dobra (Good). White Noise is a go. Repeat, White Noise is a go."

With that, the GROM team leader motioned with her hands, telling everyone their orders. Zofia 'Zo' Bosak, the ringleader of JW GROM Squadron C's interdiction team, decorated officer and combat veteran. Her shooting prowess and commanding aura meant that she certainly knew her stuff, even if Grace hated her presence. She was the reason why everyone missed their bedtime tonight. Working with a Polish commando was never a part of the Tigers' collective bucket list, but at least this woman was a breath of fresh air. She was level-headed and amicable, in contrast to the dour-faced codgers who usually give them their orders. The beret, the utility rig, and the grenade bandolier, allowed Zofia to present herself as a fierce woman of action, worthy of respect. So far, it worked.

"Tiger-Two, are you set?", she asked Grace.

"Roger. Tiger-One also is prepped for entry."

"Alright, we'll go down the shafts now. Good luck."

The soldiers went their separate ways after sharing a nod of acknowledgment. Rappelling gear was front and center in both groups, as the mission formally started with a coordinated descent into Mok Myeok Tower. As per the plan, Tiger-One would go with the Poles and enter the building, while Tiger-Two would cover their flanks from the windows. Later, Grace and her team would join the others via entry to the mezzanine, tightening up their security. If they remembered the Tower's blueprints correctly, Zofia's team would cross the media center and the office wing before they would head to the second floor. Vigil, meanwhile, would have to find the server room and install a Data Scanning Module, thereby allowing the resident hacker to work her magic in relative safety. The exfil route for all groups would be the maintenance shafts and the catwalks outside- the same paths they used to get inside. In and out, 20 minutes or less.

Time couldn't count down fast enough, though. The watch had only reached 18:53, but everything felt like a crawl. While dangling hundreds of feet in the air, Grace could feel the cold air embrace her skin, mimicking the Tigers' harsh winter training in the mountains. Her braided pigtails fluttered wildly while she planted her feet to the icy surface of the Tower's exterior, taking one step at a time as she abseiled down. Worse, the air pressure was starting to dampen her hearing. She grimaced slightly, wanting to get inside the building as soon as possible. Alas, her current objective was to provide overwatch from the outside, then tinker with the Tower's computers when signaled. Such a boring job. Upon reaching her spot, she wrapped the SMG-12's sling around her body and aimed it a non-existing target, covering her sector.

"This is Tiger-Two, we are in position.", she radioed to everyone, waiting in bated breath for Zofia's status report.

In the meantime, she kept her eyes peeled at the windows, looking for potential hostiles. Inside, the lights in the hallway were on, the electronic attractions were seemingly left running on purpose. She quickly recalled Mok Myeok's employee work schedules, which she downloaded during the flight. The routine maintenance and security sweeps should have been be making the rounds at this hour. It was odd; there was nary a soul making any movement. Only the dull, white and gray colors of marble floors and office walls. It was quiet, almost deathly so. Best guess was that the guards and janitors on this floor were conveniently elsewhere, but the chances of that coincidence were nil. The White Tigers had counted on crossing paths with non-combatants, which was why they donned their black sneaking suits to blend in with the night. Alas, the place looked abandoned.

No footprints, no noise, no anything. All sorts of strange were noted by the commandos. The radio came to life again just a few moments later.

"Dokkaebi, we are at the shafts, elevator * _static_ *. Waiting on you to * _static_ * the cameras."

"Stand-by. Activating code…"

It seemed that the altitude was starting to interfere with the radio signal. The teams needed to work faster. Sighing to herself, Grace opened her laptop again to initiate a signal override. The "Logic Bomb" combined root-level command prompts and phony input data with the mimicry of admin-level privileges and security readings. She did her thing, once again humming the familiar pop song she listened to earlier, as the progress bar filled. Confident and calculated, she made sure each button press was a right step towards the goal. Isolate the firewalls, work around the security algorithm, ensure that the fail-safe was blocked. Fingers typed onto the touchscreen with such flair and speed, it looked like she playing the piano.

*finger snap*

"…Aaaand I'm in their systems…", she announced.

Next step was to access the security camera network, which was as easy as push of a button. Then, she sifted through the signal lists like the leaves of a paperback, as one CCTV reel after another informed her of the successful breach. A closer look at the camera screens told her the exact same thing as the windows did. The rooms were empty- no occupants, save for the decors, tables, chairs, and anything else to be expected from a high-class tourist attraction. Again, the silence raised an eyebrow, even though the lax building security just made the commandos' jobs that much easier. Another dialogue box gave her access to the Tower's automated security network. The only thing left to deal with were the alarms and motion sensors, which were easily sorted out with a few more taps on the laptop screen.

"…Security system is down, Alfa. You're cleared to move."

"Acknowledged, Dokkaebi. We are moving to * _static_ * and * _static_ * now."

More radio interference.

"Alfa, could you clean your signal? Your last one was a bit choppy."

"Damn it… Amplifying frequencies. Give us a second."

The radio hissed for a moment, then the background chatter returned, consisting of shuffling feet and more Polish words, louder than before. The crackles of signal interference was still audible, forcing everyone to compensate.

Grace stalked the other teams through the cameras as they dispersed spread out across the floor. They were swift and unseen, hiding in the shadows against a non-existent enemy. They looked stupid. Then again, so did the rest of Tiger-Two, dangling from the edge of one Seoul's tallest buildings, where they could be somewhere safer, warmer, and less exposed. Just hundreds of feet below were the sights and sounds of nightlife, tempting the most lighthearted soldier with an extended R-and-R, seeing that the current mission was a bit of a cakewalk. The only thing she could do for now was to give herself a mental pat in the back for another successful electronic breach, another small victory. It always felt good to be able to do her own thing, with neither Chul Kyung or an old man from Senior Command nagging her about discipline and protocol. This joint mission with the Poles seemed not so bad after all.

*Beep!*

17:00. The mission timer told Tiger-Two that they should begin their ingress and join in on the hunt. With a hand signal from Grace, the small group of black-clad Korean soldiers leaned forward to pry the window panes opens in their respective sectors. They unfastened themselves from the assault lines and crossed the thresholds one by one, silently so as to not attract attention to the catwalks. One man took point, as the rest of the commandos began to establish lines of fire against any would be hostile, from top to bottom. They checked the floors, the alleys, the corners, the darkest spaces. But as the security cameras already told them, such caution was no longer necessary.

For the third time, they were reminded that the building was empty. No skulking shadows, no sounds, not even the faintest whisper from another human being. Just the endless droning of electronic ads and pre-recorded voiceovers, notwithstanding the silent footsteps of military boots. It seemed that the only ones sneaking around Mok Myeok were the dozen or so infiltrators, about to turn the place inside out. What happened to the men in the white van? Was the CIA mistaken? Did Ela tail the wrong vehicle?

"Alfa, this is Dokkaebi. We're at the mezzanine. What is your status?"

"Office area, still searching…", Zofia replied. "…I dispatched a team to the north… we've nothing so far…"

"Roger that."

"…Whatever it is we need to find, I think it's not on this level… We'll finish our sweep, then we'll go down one floor…"

That was where the other office area was located, just past the bar and restaurant. Nobody was holding their breath. At this point, they could be chasing ghosts and none would be the wiser. It was here that Grace resorted to grim contemplation to pass the time. She monitored the camera feeds, as was expected of her, but her mind began to wander. At the back of her mind was her side-project, left undone. She still needed to crack the Rainbow Program's firewalls. She wanted to know what they were up to, since Senior Command was dealing with them recently. Optimistically, Rainbow was looking for new recruits, as the rumors pointed out, and they wanted her into the fold. No doubt some of the Tigers would love that, since they hated her guts. It would be a win-win, as far as she was concerned, so the joke's on them. Her curiosity got the better of her, but she wasn't complaining.

"Dokkaebi… Dokkaebi, are you there?"

Another person radioed in. The voice was different: a man, speaking in a low drawl. The hacker frowned when she recognized it. For the first time tonight, Chul Kyung Hwa spoke in the airwaves, much to Grace's consternation.

"My team is at the server room. Uplink has been established.", he continued. His coarse accent was quite noticeable. "Ready to initiate wireless data transfer, do you copy?"

"Yeah… I see it.", the woman let out a heavy sigh.

It was time to look at the monitor again, to establish a secure connection with Tiger-One's DSM and start the download. She keyed in the decryption codes with no trouble, much to her surprise. She flagged the lax computer security as a mild warning sign, but she went through the motions regardless. Her mind was elsewhere. Walls of code and numbers poured into her screen, reflecting onto her goggles. She sifted through them in seconds. Less than half a minute later, she initiated the extraction of gigabytes' worth of data; data that the moguls who owned this place would pay handsomely to protect from prying eyes.

"How are you holding up?"

"Hmph. I'm fine, Chul Kyung… Leave me be."

" _neomu joyonghagun_ (This place is too quiet)…", he whispered back. "… _gyeongbileul jikyeola_ (Be on your guard)."

It was odd for him to suddenly revert to their mother tongue. He might have something he didn't want the Poles to hear. But even if Grace wanted to indulge him, this was neither the time nor the place for private chatter. Normally, he had the sense to keep his distance, figuratively-speaking, but now he was doting on her like an unwelcome parent. It was making her anxious.

" _gguh-juh_ _._ _na honjaseodo jalhageodeun._ " ("Buzz off. I can take care of myself.")

" _malbodaneun haengdong-iji_ (Actions speak louder than words), Dokkaebi…"

And as expected, he gave her another piece of unsolicited advice, like the guardian he fancied himself to be.

In an attempt to deflect the conversation, Grace shifted her eyes to the laptop screen again. The download seemed to be going well. A glance at the DSM's dialogue box revealed nothing of immediate importance, as there were literally hundreds of thousands of files and documents to sort through: a task for another day. It was quite odd for Mok Myeok's databases to be filled up this way, since many of them didn't make sense for a simple 'media conglomerate' to possess. Some of the files were labelled with random numbers and letters: the typical nomenclature for protecting sensitive data. Decoding them using a stolen administrator's password, Grace found several documents containing strange English words. 'Junteenth', 'Patriots', 'Chimera'. They made no sense by themselves.

Then, she encountered the one word that led her to tilt her head in wonder. 'Rainbow'. The same meta-tag that the Cybershield network detected two weeks ago. The word was a reference to about a dozen heavily-encrypted files in Mok Myeok's databases. Why was it here? Did it pertain to the Rainbow Program too? Instinctively, the hacker made extra copies of the files for her own perusal. Interestingly, the next items on the list looked like coordinates, specifically in America.

So far, nothing about 'Poland' and 'Krakow', as Zo Bosak was hoping to find. The more that Grace stared at her laptop, the more she felt like they were all sent on a fool's errand. At the very least, they uncovered a few suspicious files that the Poles might be interested in. Or maybe the CIA, as dodgy those people always had been. They also seemed to be the sort of thing that the Rainbow Program would like to have, wherever the hell they cooped themselves up. Perhaps once she had breached the London Data Center, she could gift them some of these files as a 'pre-enlistment bonus'.

The timer clocked in at 15:31.

"Alfa do you read me?", she called into her earpiece.

"Tiger-Two? What did you * _static_ *"

Radio interference yet again. It was stronger this time.

"Still extracting data from the server room…", Grace continued. "…I didn't find what you were looking for, but I think I got… something you might want to see…"

"* _static_ *"

"Alfa? Alfa?"

This time, there was no response from the Polish woman. Another red flag. Mildly worried, the hacker opened up the CCTV feeds again from her laptop and searched for Zofia and her team. Not a moment too soon, she found them crouched in a random hallway, fumbling with their comms equipment, as a few men covered their sectors. They were confused and slightly rattled. It seemed that the static in the airwaves had gotten to them as well.

"Tiger-One…", Grace called to the other team. "…Tiger-One come in."

"* _static_ *"

"Oh you've got to be kidding me! What's wrong with our-"

" _Attention all personnel. Security lockdown initiate_ _d_ _._ "

It was the most unpleasant surprise imaginable. Without warning, the Tower's PA system came to life with a soothing female voice. The message, however, was far from benign. Commandos taking cover at the mezzanine suddenly looked at each other in shock, as they heard the announcement reverberate throughout the building, followed by the mechanical screeching of metal gates being deployed. A quick look of their surroundings confirmed the fear. Hallways were quickly sealed off and window shutters were also closed with a loud clang. Someone tripped an alarm. It was the first thought, but the most improbable one; the White Tigers' resident geek girl was thorough in deactivating the building's security systems before they all broke in.

" _Attention all personnel. Security lockdown initiated_."

*Beep!*

The timer on her wrist clocked in at 15:00. At first, there was a sense of gob-smacked disbelief. Then, she felt her heart race faster. Her forehead had trickles of sweat and her body heated up in anxiety as she quickly switched to a more active role. Thinking on her feet, Grace turned to her laptop and fumbled with the menus again. With a few finger taps, she brought out another dialogue box, this time belonging to the automated systems that she wrested control a few minutes earlier. She checked for discrepancies in inputs and user addresses, much like how she would run an emergency debug on the Cybershield network back at base. She found the problem short after. It left her mouth gaping and her eyes wide in surprise.

There was someone else, in the system.

"Oh shit!"

She went straight into troubleshooting mode: inputting commands to block the intruder's access to the Tower's alarms. At the same time, she traced his signal using a sniffing program of her own design. Normally she used it to spy on other people's emails, but tonight she needed it to monitor all outgoing data packets in the building. So far, no such luck. She glanced at the building's schematics. Nothing either. She shifted her attention in different menus and dialogue boxes, in an attempt to root out the unknown threat. Then it hit her like a lightning strike, she noticed that the Tower's communications array was online, even though there were no scheduled broadcasts for tonight. It was a weird coincidence, albeit a terrifying one. There was only one explanation: the array was being used as a signal booster, transmitting sub-audible frequencies to drown out the radios inside the building.

"Nononono… Not this time!", she mumbled.

Just like that, the first shots of the night had been fired, metaphorically speaking. The hacker squared off against another of her kind, somewhere in Seoul. Grace rooted for herself as she put her skills to the ultimate test, typing root-level commands as fast as her brain could process them. Adjusting her Logic Bomb's protocols and firewalls on the fly, she slowly countermanded the other hacker's access to the Tower's network. Soon, the custom smiley on her screen blipped a bright yellow, indicating a successful block and system reboot. When the radios came back to life, she issued a roll call over the airwaves. They were not yet out of the fire.

"Zofia? Vigil? Are you there?", the White Tiger tech specialist called out in a more panicky voice.

"Dokkaebi?", the Polish woman called back. "What the hell just happened!? Our radio just went haywire!"

"Someone hijacked our connection!"

"What!? Say again?"

"I said someone just hijacked our connection! I think they were waiting for us! …I think we just walked into a-"

A trap. She was just about to finish her sentence when a silent bullet suddenly dinged the metal fence she was hiding behind. The impact was close enough to ring bells on her head.

*TING!*

The shooter missed, giving the hacker more than enough time to get her head down and ready her custom SMG-12. Her teammates, armed with sound-suppressed K1As, returned the favor and fired back. But they were soon greeted by hailstorms of even more lead, forcing them to duck down as well.

The infiltration op suddenly became a gun battle, with bullets being fired somewhere below Tiger-Two's position. Grace took a quick peek on the hacked CCTVs again, cycling through the feeds. And there they were: at least four other men in white overalls and ballistic masks on the second floor, aiming their weapons up high. Ambushers. They must have hid themselves from the camera and drone feeds, using conventional or electronic means. It didn't matter. Hearing a lull in the barrage, the soldiers returned fire on their assailants, who promptly hid behind walls and columns to take potshots. While both sides traded bullets with unrelenting ferocity, Grace activated her radio again.

"Alfa! We have contact! At least four enemy soldiers firing at us from the lobby!"

"What!? Roger that, we'll circle around and * _static_ *"

"Alfa? Alfa, come in!"

*BOOM!*

The explosion came from the second floor, where Squad-Alfa was supposed to be. It was louder than usual, akin to a bomb rather than a grenade. The suspicion turned out to be true, as the bang was followed by a violent crash of concrete, twisted metal, and sparkling wires. Judging from how the sound resonated, the blast was caused internally, forcing the building's interior to shake violently for a few seconds. The radio went silent, the camera feeds went dead, and the hacker skipped a heartbeat. She feared the worst had just happened, and she did nothing to stop it.

Fortunately, Squad-Alfa's team leader quickly resumed talking. Zofia was one tough bitch.

"*coughs* This is Alfa! They- *coughs* they just took out the elevator!"

It was much worse than Grace thought. Before she could respond, the radio message was cut short by even more gunfire in the background.

" _Kurwa!_ Targets, left side! LEFT SIDE!"

The distinctive reports of assault rifle fire was loud enough to register in her ears. But rather than be gripped by fear, she resolved to join the _waegukin_ in the fight. First, she had to deal with the targets on the second floor. With haste, she returned the laptop to her chest rig and prepared for a mad dash to the other side of the catwalk. She motioned to her team for some covering fire, which they gladly provided as she ran as fast as she could to switch firing positions. Perching on one of the railings, the female commando got a bead on one of the hostiles below, who was oblivious to the flanking maneuver. She lined up his masked head for a kill-shot, delivering a 9mm Parabellum into his cranium. The bad guy did not see it coming, and his body crumpled with blood and brain-matter spilling the floor. His friends panicked.

There was no time to celebrate the confirmed kill. Grace's commando training kicked in, telling her to fall back and race to her comrades' side. She immediately tossed a smoke grenade at the floor below to obscure her targets' vision. As the greyish mist started to fill, she signaled the rest of Tiger-Two to drop down and circle around the hallway to reach Zofia and Squad-Alfa. The current battle was inconsequential compared to the loss of their allies. Just after the hacker pulled away, another hail of sound-suppressed bullets thoroughly ventilated the spot where she used to be. She thought she was fast enough to escape, but then she heard the metallic clang of a round metal object, bouncing on the floor. Her eyes widened in shock and her spine shivered in fear.

"GRENAAADE!"

She dove for cover, just in time for another explosion to ring bells on her ears. Another explosion, another noise in the on-going cacophony around her, with no hope of ceasing. As the smoke cleared, the commandos checked on themselves to see if they were unscathed. No scratch or wounds were registered. A stroke of luck, but it dawned on them that their position had just become untenable. The battle started to intensify around them and it felt like Squad-Alfa and Tiger-One were pinned down as well.

A violent turn of events. One could almost wonder if the entire city was still unaware of the covert mission, what with all the crap flying around. God knows that the good guys could use some outside interference right now, even if it meant throwing a big piece of Seoul into a state of panic. Somehow, the shutters and the thick concrete of the building managed to keep the violence from escaping into the busy nightlife below. All sounds were confined into a relatively small place, and they were starting to bombard Grace's ears. Grenade blasts, shattered glass, whizzing bullets, flashbang bursts, and the mishmash of different languages shouting orders at each other. It was confusing and irritating. She never thought she would be glad to hear Zofia Bosak's commanding voice.

"Tiger-Two, we are aborting the mission! Repeat, abort the mission! Fall back to the emergency rally point! Now!"

"Roger that! Moving to secure our exfil route! Meet you there!"

Grace couldn't agree more. With a nod to her team, she and another commando tossed their remaining smoke grenades into the hallway to mask their retreat. Their assailants continued to shoot wildly into the smoke, but to no avail as Tiger-Two escaped. Hearts were racing all around, but the hacker kept a clear mind all throughout. She ensured that the download finished without problem, and she saw to it that the bulletproof sheath was enough protect her laptop from gunfire. Judging by their current location, the route to the rally point was not far away. It would take them to the media center and the museum. She had no idea what she was about to run into. No cameras, no drones, no way to contact the outside world, but her team needed to press on regardless.

She nearly paid the price for it. Just as Tiger-Two's point man entered the threshold leading to the exhibits, he was immediately felled by a few shots to the chest. It was another ambush, and Grace yelled at her team to take cover. She crouched behind one of the displays and blind fired with her SMG-12, as she kept a close hand at her fallen comrade. The soldier was alive, but in pain. The bullets penetrated his body armor, presumably hitting a soft spot due to the amount of blood he was leaking. There were about three other men inside the room, fighting the White Tigers in close range. It didn't matter to the latter, who fought even more relentlessly to save their beleaguered comrades.

*Boom! Boom!*

Just then, the darkly-lit room went alive with two flashes of light. No searing-hot explosions or shrapnel; they were concussion grenades. In such cramped quarters, everyone felt the dizzying effects of the projectiles, but not as badly as the masked shooters who took the brunt of the bursts. Then, the wall to their right crumbled from another explosive device, followed by a torrent of bullets that made contact with their chests. The gunshots sounded differently.

It was Zofia.

"Room clear!", she yelled while clutching her grenade launcher.

Behind her was the rest of Squad-Alfa, covered in soot and dust. So was their team leader, whose pretty face was slightly marred with black smudges and tiny bloodstains. Some of her men were carrying wounded soldiers across their backs, propping them up at the walls before giving them first aid. They were otherwise right as rain. The female squad leader made eye contact with Grace.

"Are you alright, Tiger-Two?", she asked.

"One of us got hit, but we're fine."

*Beep!*

Time check: 11:00. Eleven more minutes until the mission was scheduled to end. Judging by the way things turned out, however, the timetable was irrevocably screwed up. The Polish woman was aware of it. She walked towards the female hacker, ignoring her subordinates' question about their next orders. Though sweaty and winded, Zofia had enough energy to confront their hacker. Her brown eyes remained unflinching, showing subtle signs of rage.

"Miss Nam…", she went on. "…Could you tell me what in _God's Name_ just happened!? I thought you disabled the security systems!?"

"Hey, give me some slack madam…", Grace held up her hands. "…We got more than we bargained for. The defense protocols of this place are waaay better than what your team has."

"Seriously!? Sarcasm!?"

"Damn right it is! Do you want me to be more crass?", she spat back, barely keeping her composure. " _Your_ CIA friends have a lot to answer for! This mission was a mistake!"

The intel screwed up. Badly. There's no way that the Americans failed to recognize that the white van had led them into a trap. In short order, tempers among the female commandos began to flare. Trapped inside a tower with no way to call for help, everyone's composure was suddenly put to the test. Luckily, both women knew enough sense than to come into blows with each other, not while there were still hostiles coming for their blood.

For now, the coast was clear. A quick inspection of the surrounding area painted a dire predicament that the GROM soldiers and White Tigers needed to overcome. Reinforced security gates had blocked their entry to the maintenance shafts. The window shutters were locked in place, cutting off their _other_ escape route. The media center, just a few steps away from the shafts, had some ample cover. Communications were still in the fritz, as the unknown hacker continued to lock them down into one spot. Though it seemed most of the hostiles in this floor had been neutralized or had retreated, there was no telling how many of them were in the lower levels, scrambling to regroup and finish the job. And to top it all off, the commandos were sitting ducks due to the casualties they've sustained. If they bunkered up at the media center, they would be putting themselves into a kill box for the enemy to exploit.

Grace activated her laptop again to gleam anything from the Tower's blueprints and security cameras. Unfortunately, the initial assessment was true; the odds were simply not in their favor this time. She cursed under her breath as she started to work on wrestling control of the automated systems and keeping it that way. Zofia, meanwhile, tended to the rest of the soldiers, but her composure was rattled. The prospect of being trapped, waiting to be killed, would not sit well with any brave man or woman. But, there was one person who didn't balk. His discipline well-maintained and his silence defeaning, Chul Kyung Hwa entered the room with the rest of his team close behind. He didn't exchange greetings with his comrades, who were obviously glad to see more allies. Instead, they were perturbed when they saw he had another man in his grasps, held by the collar.

It was a Caucasian man, cropped black hair, possibly no more than his mid-twenties to early-thirties. He looked like one of the assailants that tried to kill them just now, sans the weapon and the white mask. His jumpsuit was worn and bloodied. It bore the logo of a local subcontracting company- an obvious disguise.

"I found him in one of the cubicles. Hiding under a desk."

Chul Kyung brought the young man to the center of the room, who struggled in vain to wring free from his clutches. The poor bastard's resistance prompted the Korean soldier to deliver a swift kick to the back of his knee, forcing him down. Then, he pulled out one of the spare rappelling ropes that lined his waist. He created a makeshift noose, then wrapped it around the captured enemy's neck. Made from high-density fabric, the rope was coarse and heavy, easily leaving behind gashes to any patch of unprotected skin. The squealing pain only proved this fact.

For the first time tonight, Grace felt something surreal about her comrade. Normally, she would be annoyed by his constant reminders and doting. But now, she was scared of him. He had the physique of a trained killer. His black ballistic mask gave him a lifeless expression, with nothing but his eyes to remind others of the human underneath. And when he spoke, his voice was filled with menace. He was fearsome and foreboding. It wasn't obvious in his body language, but he was angry. Angry that he walked into an ambush despite his vigilance. Angry that he was forced to resort to this act of brutality. Angry that his comrades had to see this kind of ruthlessness from him. He wanted to protect them, but he also wanted answers about tonight's misfortune.

"Who told you we were coming?", he asked the prisoner.

The young man was adamant not to say a word, and instead resolved to spout curses between desperate breaths. In response, the mask-wearing White Tiger wrapped his hand around the rope, tightening the death grip. The prisoner gagged even more, as the noose threatened to crush his windpipe. Grace wanted to put a stop to it. Zofia looked on in absolute silence, refusing to interfere. She let the masked man do his work.

"When I say a name…You say 'yes' if I got your employer right… Practice."

"F…Fuck…"

It was a good enough response.

"Sun Yee On… SSD… Beijing… True Patriots…"

Such tight-lipped silence. Chul Kyung gripped the rope harder, urging his quarry to spill the beans. It was either that or he experience the disgrace of a slow, miserable death. Everyone else was all ears. Everyone else wanted to know who ambushed them tonight.

"…Are you paying attention?"

Between heaving breaths, the prisoner spouted one line that sealed his fate.

"F-Fuck… yourself."

"Hmm… Thank you very much for your help."

Without pausing, Chul Kyung slowly pulled the noose all the way; his quarry started to thrash around in agony. The rope blocked his esophagus, keeping him from screaming out loud. Soon, his pained breaths were replaced by choking and the snapping of bone, the neck slowly being twisted by the makeshift vice. It was visceral and sickening, inspiring grimaces from hardened commandos. The audible crack of the cervical vertebrae was the death bell. A moment after, the prisoner went limp and slumped down lifeless. Another confirmed enemy kill.

Such brutality. And yet, the masked man, Vigil, didn't even blink. He paid no respects to the enemy's body as he removed the noose from the neck. Then, he turned to Alfa's team leader, as if nothing happened.

"Ma'am. How are your men?"

"Two wounded, but they'll make it. Four in fighting condition...", Zofia replied, including herself in the latter number.

Grace Nam could only think of so many probabilities. Anything to distract herself from the brutal killing she just witnessed, and the prospect of inescapable death looming ahead of her. Things were rather grim, but she refused to accept defeat. There was still hope: Ela and her Squad-Brawo were still at ground level, waiting on their car. Surely, they'd known something was up when the radios went down earlier. Hopefully, they didn't do anything stupid, like get themselves ambushed. With the main elevator disabled, the maintenance lift could help them get to their comrades in time. But not until comms were fully restored and a manual override of the automated systems were carried out. The hacker was in even more pressure than before, but she focused on her laptop. There was at least one way out of this mess.

"…We need to signal the chopper for emergency extract! Dokkaebi?"

"I'll try to override the lockdown Zofia, but I'll need time.", she replied.

"Focus on the radio first! Stay in cover and patch me to Ela once you have a channel!"

"We'll stronghold our position here, then.", Chul Kyung nodded. "I expect more of them to come from the lower floors."

The other Korean soldiers took his word for it. After all, they faced only a small number of hostiles in the Tower so far. Who's to say there weren't any more of them? They checked weapons and ammo, and also started sharing frag grenades.

The realization inspired the White Tiger tech specialist to keep working. Calm and composed, she took the lull in the combat as a chance to revert to her usual confidence. Each finger swipe was a step towards the goal, each button press made a little progress towards a solution. She recalled the standard operating procedure for reinstituting network access privileges following a security lockdown. Isolating firewalls, working around security algorithms, blocking fail-safes. Her first success was the radio, which finally came to life. She signaled Zofia to open her headset.

"Goddammit! Somebody _please_ answer me! Dokkobee? Zofia? Anyone!?"

It was Ela. The panicked voice brought a smile to Grace's face, discounting that the other Polish woman still pronounced her name wrong.

"Ela?", Zofia radioed back. "...Ela! Do you hear me?"

"Zo!? What the fuck happened!? We lost contact with you! You better have a-"

"We've been ambushed. Light casualties.", the GROM team leader calmly replied. "Hostiles have us trapped at the media center, top floor. Repeat, Alfa and Tiger Teams are trapped at the media center, top floor."

"Wha-What?"

"The men from the white van. They've found us. They are armed."

The conversation continued in their native tongue. In the meantime, Grace kept her eyes glued into the screen of her laptop, her goggles reflecting the lines of code flashed in front of her. She struggled to maintain control of the Tower's security systems. Whoever was trying to hijack her command prompts and cause a ruckus was a pretty good programmer. A part of her wanted to meet this person and personally drill a 9mm into his head. Heck, for all she knew she was actually squaring off against a group of hackers or something.

She wondered what kind of hole she just made for herself tonight. If she didn't keep her wits about her, this would be her last taste of Seoul's nightlife. She would never have the chance to uncover the Rainbow Program and learn their secrets. It was frustrating to know that her ticket out of the Army was slipping through her fingers, simply because her last mission turned into a colossal mess. It wouldn't end this way if they'd been here. She entertained the thought while fumbling with her laptop. They needed to know what happened this night. At the very least, they needed to know what she was able to find here.

She only needed to crack two more of their firewalls…

 _"_ … _Wez swój zespól przygotujcie sie do kontratak_ (Take your team and set up for a counter-assault).", Zofia finished her conversation.

" _Już jedziemy_ (We're on the way)!", replied her second-in-command.

At least the auto-translator was still working well.

"Ma'am, I will need two of your best men to come with me.", Chul Kyung respectfully spoke. "We need to flank to the stairwells, ambush the enemy reinforcements…"

"How are you going to do that?"

"My cloaking system will hide me from their cameras…", he motioned to the crummy item on his back. "…Just give me time to set-up. We can fool the enemy that we're a larger force than we really are."

"Hmph. Alright."

The woman motioned to a couple of GROM commandos, who promptly nodded and accompanied Tiger-One out of the room.

"Chul Kyung.", Grace radioed him. "If you can get me one of their phones, that will be great. I need their ZRTP codes."

"So you can distract them, eh? Great call."

Great call. The pun was noted. She looked at the timer on her wrist one last time. It read 7:35, seven minutes and thirty-five seconds until the mission would be over. Sadly, that was no longer the case. Just beside one of the exhibits at the media center, she saw the soldiers reinforcing their positions with makeshift shields and overturned tables as cover. Some of them noticed a few metal barricades stashed near the doors. They were portable, pneumatic systems that the most prestigious security firms employed in case of emergencies. The placed them on the walls, acting as extra protection from gunfire…

…

* * *

RAF Credenhill (Hereford Base), Herefordshire, England  
"The Kill House"

A few minutes later.

…

How to install a portable, pneumatic metal barricade. Step one: set the bulky device down behind a wall, preferably behind a wooden or concrete surface less than two meters thick. Step two, lift the barricade's lower half and pull the lever, raising it about waist-level. Step three: push the lever up to drive the pins into the surface; some back-breaking pressure might be necessary. Step four: push the lever all the way to lock the barricade into place. Done right, the wall would be permanently reinforced by a bulletproof, stainless steel underlay. Nothing short of an exothermic charge or a tank shell would get through that.

A round of applause ensued, prompting the presenter, 25-year-old ex-GIGN rifleman Julien Nizan to bow at the crowd. He was surrounded by a group of British soldiers: men from the Special Forces Support Group. His right foot was still wrapped in bandages, still recovering from the surgery he got for twisting his Achilles during PT a few weeks ago. Though he was obviously in discomfort, the kid had spirit. The same thing that Dominic Brunsmeier wished he still had in abundance.

The former GSG 9 officer looked on with an absent mind as the Frenchman was approached by a few of the SFSG guys, presumably to ask him some questions. It's another day in the office. The German wore a plain black shirt and a pair of brown cargoes; the latter of which matched the auburn scruff that graced his chain. Unlike yesterday, he also donned the straps and belts that made up the team's VR training gear. His turn was about to come. He was just killing time by distracting himself with his comrade's little stage demo. To think that just a few days ago he was in a subterfuge mission in Hannover… he felt alive again.

But that was already done and dusted, and it was time for Dominic to return to the humdrum day-to-day in England. He returned to his spot at the Kill House's training room, awaiting the results of the on-going combat exercise. He maintained a stoic look, as he shared a random corner with Elias Kötz and Craig Jenson, who were both watching the action through a row of monitors ran by Hereford Base's technicians. Lots of running and gunning, with little sense of realism even bothered with. He could go on and ramble about the necessity of these tests as opposed to good old fashioned target practice with rubber bullets, but that was not actually his problem at the moment. There was a reason why the team's being put up with this crap. The other ex-cop in the corner also seemed to mirror his thoughts.

"What's so special about Juneteenth, huh?", Elias asked.

"Eh, it's just the day when Lincoln put a stop to slavery. 'Freedom Day'…", the bearded ex-Navy SEAL replied. "…Not really a 'holiday' as you think, but it's an important piece of our heritage."

"So are there any parades, fireworks? Barbecues with the neighbors?"

"For the most part? Nah. It's no Fourth of July. But I guess this year's special, 'cos someone thought it'd be great to hold an international delegation on the same day…"

No truer words had been spoken by Craig, who was referring to the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in Manhattan less than two weeks away. Dominic and his colleagues got to hold the fort in Europe, while Seamus and the rest of the gang had the privilege of joining the Summit's security detail. But once again, current events dictated a change of plans. Now, they said, some of the team in Hereford might be deployed to New York as well, acting as extra manpower while leaving Europe even more exposed. The whole thing smelled a lot like bureaucratic shenanigans from the Yanks.

"…And all the spooks are supposed to keep watch. That includes Rainbow.", Craig finished his sentence.

"Is that why we have to teach the rookies back there how to do our jobs while we're away?", Dominic bitterly remarked. He knew he was being inconsiderate, discounting the SFSG's skills. He needed to get his point across.

"Heh. Pretty much the story of our lives now. On the bright side, at least you'll get to see Monika and Marius again."

"Bastard. I've just gotten used to working without those two…"

The other German snickered, knowing that Dominic didn't actually mean those words. Though in private, he simply didn't want to entrust Rainbow's 'Reserve force' of recruits with their real mission. Mixing hardcore grunts with not-so-hardcore grunts meant that the troop quality would be all over the place. Markie and Old Man Baker had been haggling with their superiors in the British military to spare some more manpower or resources for the team, but they had mixed success. An insurmountable task, for sure, given the current state of affairs.

"… _Sheise_. When will Six realize how shorthanded we really are?"

"I bet she knew that from the start, Dom. The brass must've tightened our budget recently if we're cutting corners like this. Just suck it up; if you think this is bad, wait till you see the SEALs…"

"I don't know about you, but I will not hold this against the Americans.", Elias added, a vain attempt to sound smart. "After all, they're paying us dollars; of course they want a return of their investment. It's the most logical thing to do."

"Logical? Dammit Eli, did your gal Moni tell you that?", Craig raised an eyebrow behind his shades. "That's not how politics work. Nor should they."

"Hey I didn't go to college, so I have to learn stuff from the ones who did."

"Just for that, eh? …'Learning stuff'…"

"With her? _Ja_ , definitely for that…", he smiled again. "…And… other things. Heh."

Dominic rolled his eyes; of course his buddy would bring up the thing he had going with his smarty-pants girlfriend. It added nothing to the conversation, but then again the gang at Hereford deserved to enjoy whatever fleeting moments of joy they could find. There was a sinking thought that the next few days would be... messy.

It was what the former undercover cop learned from his years in Hannover. If things seemed to be going too well, misfortune was bound to come after. Literally every time that he had a moment of peace in his life, something would come up later to shake him off his safe zone. Some days, it was a muscling job to extort an innocent family. Other times, it was a fight with another club and all the violence that came along with it. It only got worse from there- arsons, murders, gang wars. It was as if the Fates demanded some sort of balance between levity and violence. The scruffy German didn't know what that meant to Rainbow, but he was certain about one thing. He needed to be ready.

*Beep!*

After a few minutes of idle chatter among the trio, the door to the makeshift VR chamber finally opened. The Kill House was bathed in the sounds of friendly cheers and vitriolic banters, as the members of Blue and Orange Teams emerged from the threshold, somewhat exhausted. Among the first to step out of the door was Eliza Cohen, donning a black suit with strobes and sensors, cradling a prop assault rifle across her chest. The smile on her face hinted that she was content with the last round, even without looking at the scoreboard.

"Hey, Ash.", Craig called to her. "How did it go?"

"Miss Skullface thinks I'm cheating.", she laughed. "Said she couldn't hit me when I'm runnin' around."

"Must be an issue with the hitbox again. And I thought the software patch already took care of that…"

"What the fuck is a 'hitbox' anyway? Another nerd slang?", she frowned. "Some of the boys keep running their mouths about it."

The American shrugged, at a loss of a satisfying answer, then went to the table of the computer technicians, who were manning the simulation's controls. Eliza looked at Dominic, silently asking about the same thing, but he simply ignored her. Instead, he motioned to his friend Elias that it was time for them to enter the chamber. They exchanged gestures and nods, each wishing each other the best of luck. Each of them could look forward to a next half-hour of make-believe gun battles, trolling messages, and sloppy hit registration that would keep the experience as detached to reality as possible. God knows what kind of crap their avatars would be wearing this time around…

"What the hell?", Craig remarked. "Everyone stay where you are. We got some technical problems here…"

"Gah. What is it now?"

Dominic glared at the technician's table, chastising them for the sudden delay. His next thought was to intimidate them with a half-hearted prank, but then he saw that people on the corner wore serious faces. Each of them was staring at their monitors in quiet contemplation, like they had just uncovered another weird glitch.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, the German went to Craig's table and gawked with him. He expected to see another software problem that would lead Baker to close the VR station for about a day or two. Or perhaps a hardware malfunction that would finally prompt that cold-hearted bitch of a boss lady to give them an upgrade. What Dominic saw was truly a puzzling thing: the monitors had a flashing dialogue box. It had a custom-smiley face in bright yellow, looking like a goblin. It made cutesy beeping noises that made his stomach churn.

"What the hell is that?"

While he wasn't as tech-savvy as Mark, Dominic knew a computer virus if he'd seen one. He motioned for the technician not to click on the icon, but it was to no avail. Within seconds, the dialogue box opened up by itself, revealing a long list of files with random letters and numbers, locked using some kind of encrypting tool. Combined, they were about a dozen gigabytes in size. They neither had the name of the sender nor the recipient, yet the files ended up in this terminal. The digital address was out of sorts as well; it didn't look like it came from Europe nor America.

Certain names stood out: 'Juneteenth', 'Patriots', 'Rainbow'.

"Ash?", Craig called to the red-haired woman. "Could you ask Mark to come down here?"

"Huh? Why me?"

"You're the fastest one here, _Fraulein_ Cohen.", Dominic frowned. "He needs to see this. Now."

Specifically, it was an anonymous message from the other side of the globe.

…

* * *

…

Such chaos. The security screens showcased a vicious battle, room-to-room, man-to-man, as it unfolded in real time. The Seoul Cell had the element of surprise and the benefit of deception from their benefactor. Yet, the GROM and ROK troops they caught in the deathtrap were more resourceful than anticipated. Despite casualties, these commandos were able to dig-in, using metal barricades and furniture to protect themselves from the gunfire. Pre-established killing zones suddenly became irrelevant; nothing short of an RPG would dislodge them from their positions now. Worse, it seemed that their hacker succeeded in extracting the information from the Tower's databases, ultimately making their mission a success to some extent.

For Caleb, this only meant one thing. Seoul would be lost and word would spread. Their brothers-in-arms had been using Mok Myeok Tower as a repository for their books and intelligence files. There was no better safe house than one right under the enemy's noses: a tourist attraction in Seoul, just a few kilometers from the USAG Yongsan and the headquarters of the 707th Special Mission Battalion. Yet despite the careful planning and the interference from their comrade in Virginia, everything still fell apart. The Tower was a treasure throve for intel. The 'good guys' must have obtained The Compound's coordinates by now, if they haven't already.

"We should help them out!", one man advised. "We can't just stand here!"

"And how are we gonna do that?", the bald man glared at him. "Swim our way to Korea? Stow away in an airplane and jump out?"

"B-But those are our guys!"

The words of concern fell flat on deaf ears. Caleb simply focused on the security screens, intending to study their adversaries' tactics for the coming battle. These soldiers were not from Team Rainbow, but they certainly mirrored their way of fighting. Surgical strikes, controlled bursts of fire, speed and aggression. Professional, yet predictable. Such strategies had countermeasures, which could easily be pulled off even with meager resources.

He clicked on another set of camera feeds. It seemed that the GROM commandos and White Tigers succeeded in getting the maintenance elevator back to working condition, judging by the presence of four other heavily-armed soldiers hitching a ride. They were led by a chick wearing a baseball cap, verbalizing orders to her comrades while brandishing a customized 9mm Skorpion EVO. For the masked men in the Tower, their odds of survival just plummeted even more. But it's their fault for letting a car tail them from Gangnam to Yongsan. He had a bird's eye view of the action.

"There's nothing we can do for them now. The Bossman helped the best he could, but Seoul is lost…"

Caleb turned around, greeted by a handful of men in sweaters and hoodies, wearing morose faces. They just witnessed their comrades' impending doom, like it was a glimpse of their own future in the next few days. Their feelings were irrelevant. They needed to be whipped into action.

"…It's time. Get the Alamo ready."

They dispersed without uttering a word. They knew what had to be done. Check all weapons and ammo. Position all of the bombs. Calibrate the turrets. Get the radio jammers ready. Judging from what they'd seen just now, the wheels have finally turned. The coming days would be bloody, costly, yet completely necessary. They needed to happen, so that the rest of D-Day would go on without a hitch. At least there would be nobody else coming for them now, save for Team Rainbow. No doubt these 'heroes' would come with a vengeance. They did the same thing in Bartlett and LA. They had no idea that they've already made so many mistakes.

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** The struggle was real with this one lol. Similar to Chapter Five, this bit is a combination of two chapters' worth of content. I decided to combine them into one so that they won't take away screen time from the next part of the story, which I intend to be even more action-packed. Dokkaebi easily struck me as the most unique operator in Operation White Noise, at least in terms of aesthetics and personality, hence the spotlight given to her here. That _may_ also have to do with the fact that I had a lot of fun playing her, but plot-wise I probably should have picked Zofia as the POV for this chapter. Oh well.

Happy Holidays everyone and keep on Siege-ing! :)


	12. Chapter 11 - Retribution

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven - "Retribution"**

* * *

Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC), Fort Bragg, North Carolina  
0824 hours

Day 11

…

"Where did you get this?", Ethan spoke to the device on his ear, all the while opening the email.

"Archived reports from the Beaver State…", Emily Jacobsen replied, her voice slightly muffled by the cellphone's signal. "…Back in '95, ATF seized guns from a bunch of survivalist nutjobs east of Willamette. Quite close to the coordinates you gave me."

"Two years after Waco, huh? This happened near the wine country?"

"Yep. Loose firearms sometimes turn up in the most obscure places… Anyway, ATF didn't nab any big players, but they dug up a few things about one of the places they raided… Mostly floorplans and invoices, written under one of Leonard Fausse's aliases…"

The email contained an old photo of the recently-deceased leader of America's True Patriots. He posed himself as a mustached fellow with thinning hair named 'Richard Roe', the most obvious of fakes. The stupid fool practically sold himself out, but the Feds didn't catch the ruse, for some reason.

Ethan held back a yawn while he leaned back on his seat, trying his best to fight off the lingering drowsiness. Only a few minutes had gone by after he had breakfast with the team at the mess hall. After an hour, Seamus would call them back to the briefing room for the daily sitrep. Nearly everybody was focused upcoming deployment to New York, just a couple of weeks away. Some of the guys were getting restless, but the rest kept themselves busy with other stuff. Meghan Castellano kept in touch with her friends at the Office of Naval Intelligence in Maryland, mostly skimming for news about the on-going hunt for the White Masks. Sébastien Côté, who previously worked with the ATF in his cop years, had also checked in with his old friends for anything on the wire. Two people kept their ears to the ground, so to speak.

But they weren't the only ones working hard. Going beyond his job description as a humble Operator, Ethan took the initiative to drum up leads as well. Hence, his recent meeting with Emily, the red-haired CIA lady that he used to call his boss. He was eager to lend a hand, both to prove his worth and to do something other than twiddle with his thumbs. This morning, his friend had finally come through with her promise: the location of a remote farm complex that used to be the site of a major criminal enterprise back in the 90s. The laptop screen had a smorgasbord of data mingled with several photographs, among them were a few gray-scale images, spanning years of undercover police work and satellite recon. Most of them were almost a decade old, back when America's True Patriots were still an unknown quantity.

"…I'm not sure what happened after that, though…", Emily continued. "…The case files were redacted and sealed when I got my hands on them."

"You're shitting me. ATF didn't tell anyone at Homeland Security about this?"

"Beats me. Hell, nobody here at Special Activities even knew about this case until I showed them those coordinates of yours."

"Wait, you're telling me that _you guys_ are also learning this just now?", the man with the cellphone frowned. "The hell has Langley been doing all this time?"

"Busy. It's called 'compartmentalization', Ace…", she defended. "…But I can give you two hints: 'cyber operations' and 'Yongsan'."

She dodged the question, as expected. The man sighed and took a second look at his laptop, once again going over the floorplans emailed to him. 'The Compound'. Built in the 70's, this rustic piece of property changed hands several times until it was bought by a farming collective, in reality run by one of Fausse's front groups, as their headquarters. The place itself covered several hectares of arable land, dotted by a few shacks and greenhouses. The centerpiece, however, was the main ranch building: two floors and a basement, plus enough space to house a small company of men. It was also isolated, had clear sightlines to the major roads, and was innocuous enough to not raise suspicion from passersby. From a tactical perspective, the place seemed like the perfect spot to set up one's base of operations. It's hard to see why the Feds didn't pay it much heed back then, but these were the same people who didn't anticipate what the wacky 'populist revolutionary' would eventually become.

If this was a clerical oversight, then it would be one hell of a frigging understatement. Then again, such nuances were to be expected in this line of work. This wouldn't be the first time that the pencil pushers did something wrong.

"Anyway... At least this brings us closer to nabbing Mohandes.", he voiced his conviction.

"You mean Adam Kipper?"

"Doesn't matter what we call him. His name won't even make this week's obituaries. I'll see to it."

The quiet anger at the man responsible for the deaths of dozens remained strong. Former DHS consultant and government employee, turned terrorist-for-hire. He used his knowledge of chemicals to essentially wage war against his own country. The man was guilty of being a murderer and a traitor- more than enough reason for any dutiful patriot to spite him. After a long pause, Emily spoke again.

"…So what's next? Do you want me to bring this to the top brass? I know I'm just an overqualified clerk these days, but I still got some pull with the Director's office."

"No need for that. We'll take it from here."

Ethan's first thought was to inform Meghan of this new piece of intel from the CIA. It wouldn't be the most pleasing idea; she was still mad at him for that screw-up in Los Angeles, but it was high time for the two of them seek peace. With luck, he would set everything right this morning. Maybe she would finally forgive him. Maybe she would ignore the gift and give him an earful of spite instead. Most probably the latter, if her mood was still as stingy as a few days ago. Either way, he should suck it up. With a clear goal in mind, he transferred the contents of the email to one of his flash drives.

Suddenly, the lady on the phone laughed. Quite a contrast from her usual cold, professional self.

"What's so funny?", he asked.

"Oh man… So this is how it feels like to be shafted by one of your own, eh? Goddamn, you really are moving up in the world!"

"The fuck? This ain't payback for you bossing me around all those years…"

"Save your breath. I get it, I'm your helper now. Your job's a need-to-know basis… And I don't need to know."

The irony of the ex-Case Officer being stonewalled by one of her former subordinates was palpable. It was the biggest, proverbial middle finger that the ex-Delta Force sniper could give to the Central Intelligence Agency, and he didn't even notice it. He loved the thought of it. Gabe and Omar would have relished this moment too, if they were still alive. The jovial mood quickly changed when the Emily spoke again, with a clearly serious tone in her voice.

"…Hey Ethan. If you're doing what I think you're doing…"

"What of it?"

"I just… *sigh* …just wanna say good luck… And be careful."

He smiled again. Her concern was noted.

"Don't worry about me. Like I said, I still owe you that dinner next time we meet."

"Hmm. I'll hold you to that, Mr. Mallory. I don't like cheap dates."

With that, he closed the cellphone. One more chuckle escaped his lips. He got off from his chair in the office cubicle to stretch his back, then went out of the room with a clear purpose in mind. His cup of coffee would have to wait.

With the flash drive on his back pocket, he made haste to the stairwell, eager to share the good news to his comrades on the third floor. He walked at a brisk pace, calm and composed as he did his best to fight off the lingering drowsiness in his head and the mild worry in his heart. He needed to do this right. This was his chance to redeem himself after he got Leonard Fausse killed in LA. Ethan made a grave error by manhandling a principal suspect, exposing himself and the perp to the crosshairs of another shooter, perched in some rooftop somewhere. His brain played the scene over and over again, as if to force him into a vow to never make the same mistake again. He had to be hard to himself, like a rookie's first day after Special Forces Selection. However, the pragmatist in him implored that he should get over the unprecedented death of a wanted terrorist. Focus on the bigger picture and set aside the self-pity.

He reached the third floor a few moments later, whereupon he opened the door to the operations room with a mildly neutral grin on his face. He only expected Meghan to be there. But to his surprise, he saw a handful of people in black shirts and fatigues, all huddled around a laptop on the intelligence officer's desk. Sébastien was there. So was Miles. And Emmanuelle, who was the only one who noticed the guy standing by the door. Her green eyes darted to meet him, then went back to the computer screen on the frogwoman's desk.

"Are you sure about this, Em?", the blonde woman asked the brunette. "You're saying we can't brute force the encryption on these files?"

Emma chortled briefly. No words were needed to remind everyone that she was a self-taught computer programmer. Of course she knew her stuff.

"Like I said, the security protocols are very high-end. If I ran a bypass or I typed the wrong password _just once_ , the files will wipe themselves."

"Hmm. Sounds like something that a bunch of spooks would do."

"I've seen the same in our DGSE, but yeah."

"Great. We wasted a day's work and we made no progress…", Meghan rested her cheek on her right hand. "…I'm gonna have to talk to a friend of mine in GROM. They're the ones who gave us these files."

"You're not worried that we might have been compromised?", Sébastien asked her. "They sent these to us by breaching our data center in London."

"A leak? Our OPSEC here's tight, Buck. Nobody knows we're in Bragg except for Homeland Security. And I'm gonna bet my career that the guy who 'hacked' us was someone we know. Perhaps one of our prospects."

" _Je m'en calice_ (I don't give a damn). Maybe we should be concerned why some of the White Masks' files are labelled 'Rainbow', eh?", he pointed at her screen.

"They could be about the Rainbow Plans. The Pentagon still keeps those as a contingency in case we go to war with Moscow. Or Pyongyang."

"What's going on?", Ethan announced his presence.

In an instant, all eyes in the room went to him. As expected, the tattooed ex-Navy SEAL was not at all thrilled to see him. However, she looked perturbed by a different matter altogether instead of the colleague she was incensed by. Presumably today's cause for concern was found on her laptop. Whatever it was, it demanded the attention of three other Rainbow operatives.

"Oh. Ace. Fancy seeing you here…"

"We're still brainstorming on those files from Seoul.", Emma explained to the guest. "You know, the ones we got from the mystery hacker?"

"Heh. Should be easy, right?"

Meghan did not respond to his question. Instead, she feigned a scowl and showed him the screen of her laptop, filled with walls of text and binary code. For a moment, Ethan forgot about his purpose in the operations room to indulge his curiosity. Yet as someone who didn't have more than a rudimentary understanding of tech-stuff, he failed to make out what the codes meant. Which was precisely the point, as the blonde woman's next words told him.

"If you can figure this out on your own, then I'll personally recommend you get a raise. Promise."

"Oof. Damn, girl.", Miles butted in. "No need to be a sour-puss."

"So what happens now?

"Nada. Same shit different day…", Meghan replied to Ethan."…I'm gonna pass these files over to a specialist. In the meantime, we keep our eyes and ears peeled."

"An op would be nice."

"No can do. The Summit's our priority, remember? Six wants us to conserve our strength, so I don't think she'll let us loose anytime soon."

"Tell me about it. _Monsieur_ Treadway wants your JSOC to lead local operations now…", Emma repeated the meeting from a few days ago. "…I hope it doesn't become a trend."

"Oh I doubt that, honey. From what I hear, the suits want to pass the Enhanced Domestic Defense Act. After what's been happening recently."

Meghan reminded her of the facts, yet it was not a satisfactory answer. True, Rainbow had stand-down orders in effect. The Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit on Freedom Day was a little more than a week from now. There was no point for the team to run errands when other bodies could be used for that.

But this didn't mean that Rainbow should do _absolutely nothing_. Not when Mohandes and the rest of White Masks were still out there, ready to kill at will. Rainbow should still play a part. As much as common sense would say otherwise, Ethan believed the time for action was nigh. Thus, he locked himself with his thoughts, weighing the consequences and gains in his head. They seemed acceptable. The team's operational readiness was satisfactory. Their logistics were on point, their intelligence situation was good. From Fausse, they already got the name of a principal entity for the attack on the Summit. From LA, they already learned how the White Masks were being funded. From Europe, they were already given a rough picture of the terrorists' logistics structure. And with Emily's help, Team Rainbow was given a chance to eliminate the enemy's leadership for good. Meghan had to see things his way.

"To hell with it.", Ethan spoke again. "We need to do something. Work faster, even."

"Hey what's got you all fired up this morning, huh?", she frowned.

"I just spoke with a contact of mine. I think I have actionable intel we can use."

"What are you-"

He silenced her by taking out the flash drive from his pocket. It quickly attracted glances from his colleagues, curious as to what caused the new guy to suddenly become more assertive.

"I had someone in the CIA look into the intel our Hereford-buddies gave us recently…"

"You? Chumming up with spies and analysts?", Meghan chuckled, her words dripping with sarcasm.

Ethan ignored the finger-poking and inserted the drive into the laptop. The small device blinked a faint white light. After a few seconds, the monitor produced another set of dialogue boxes with high-res photos and documents, all of which had the ATF's prints all over them. Anyone with a background in law enforcement and intelligence-gathering would instantly recognize them.

"…Here. The location and floorplans of an old farm, just a hundred clicks south of Sherman Highway. This used to be one of Fausse's safehouses, still open for business."

And possibly the current headquarters of the White Masks, he didn't need to add. The operatives huddled around Meghan's desk for a second time. Different pairs of eyes started analyzing the same collage of intelligence data, each of them trying to interpret the larger whole. They started talking amongst themselves, bringing various perspectives. Slowly but surely, the larger picture unfolded before them. Quite large enough to warrant an immediate action from Rainbow, if only the powers that be would allow it. The blonde woman was usually their mouthpiece, but she had other concerns. She stared at Ethan accusingly.

"The CIA helped you with this? I hope to God you didn't tell them that you're working for us."

"Hey, I'm not as dumb as I look.", he narrowed his eyes. "Run your own checks if you want, but I'm confident the intel is authentic. We gotta tell Seamus and-"

"Woah wait a minute. It's too early to call this in…", she stopped him. "…I have to pass this information along to Six first, then to the DHS…"

The more she looked at the files, the more she thought about the ramifications. She didn't like them.

"…Hell, I think ONI would want to hear about this too. This seems like something they missed over the airwaves."

"Do it soon, coz FBI's Tac Teams are prowling near the area right now. Just waitin' for a target.", Miles spoke to her. "You want me to raise the station chief at Portland?"

Meghan nodded, after musing at the thought for a short while.

"I suppose it won't hurt to let them exercise their jurisdiction for once… Alright, I'll give you the green light once I'm done checking these out."

"Roger that."

"Buck?", she turned to the bearded Canadian, who had his arms crossed the whole time. "Can you relay this to your buddy down at DC later? I'm sure the ATF will want a piece of the pie."

"Will do."

With that, the two men left the room with all due haste. It was as if they were given renewed purpose, rather than the lame existence that current circumstances had afforded Rainbow. The women, on the other hand, began to mumble amongst themselves. Identifying the pros and cons just as Ethan did. It was here when they were reminded with one crucial truth: thanks to current events, Team Rainbow could no longer operate without the Department of Homeland Security's say-so. They could not fly to the coordinates in the flash drive without authorization from both Six and Director Treadway. Both leaders were counting on the world's best soldiers to protect the upcoming gathering of bigwigs in New York, to ensure it would go off without a hitch. That meant no wasteful spending of resources in the interim. Especially time, fuel, bullets, and most importantly, lives.

"*sigh* Even if this intel is solid, I'm betting Six will say it's not worth risking our necks for."

"A full team won't be necessary, Meghan. Just send me with the cops.", Ethan volunteered. "It's my intel, I'll bear the responsibility. If shit hits the fan, you only lose one guy."

"One _shooter_. That's a big problem right there. Did you forget that Seamus wants us all of us to pitch in for the Summit?"

"Oh come on, don't stall me now!"

"Look, Ace.", she stood from her chair. "If this is about what happened to Fausse, then drop it. I've already put it behind us…"

It was a mild shock. Her expression was serious, but sincere. Her eyes didn't have an inkling of spite or vitriol, unlike before. This woman was quick to grasp the hidden purpose of his visit. Just like that, she was like a sibling who noticed her brother was up to no good. It was such a kicker her intuition was strong.

"…Or maybe… this is something else. Isn't it?"

Ethan exchanged stares with her for a few seconds. Slowly, he realized that he had no choice but to admit it. He pictured a man, five-foot-eleven, tan skinned, black hair, a dark chin curtain, and a medium build. A terrorist-for-hire who sold discount biochemical weapons to ruthless fanatics in the Eastern Hemisphere. Not too long ago, Washington wanted to snatch him from the Middle East and bring him back stateside for questioning. The Central Intelligence Agency's Special Activities Division spent months tracking him down, but their efforts ultimately led to the deaths of nine Delta Force operators. The sole survivor of that unit, Team Rainbow's newest recruit, spoke the man's name with gritted teeth.

"Mohandes, The Engineer… he might be at the Compound… We have to get him."

"Pfft. I knew it. Revenge."

The blonde woman sighed in exasperation and turned her back, shaking her head along the way. Then, a few breaths of laughter escaped, as if she heard a bad joke.

"I expected better from you. This is about what happened in Operation Witch Hunt, correct? You're still angry because your friends were killed by this Mohandes guy…"

"…"

"…And now you have to chance to fuck him up, just like you tried with Fausse…", she admonished. "…Look, everyone here's sorry about your team, but you have to let go."

"Shut up."

"See what I'm talking about? …You know what? That hothead of yours already got a man killed. A bad guy. But what if it's a civilian next time, huh? What if it's one of us?"

'What if it's me?' He finished the rest of her lecture in his head. The words rang truer than he hoped. For a moment, he was left silent and humbled. He clenched his fist as tight as he could. But how did she know about that? Who gave her the mission files? Was it Six? Someone from the CIA? In the end, it was irrelevant. But anyone who read it would understand why the sole survivor would wish for revenge. He still had the dogtags of his friends. He still had the torn Broncos patch from Gabe's baseball cap. He could still remember the stench and screams, not to mention the bomb that killed his best friend. So many scars reminded him of his failure. He could not help but carry these memories, horrible and vivid.

He found no peace in remembering them. Meghan's pep talk certainly wasn't helping, despite her good intentions. Who was she to judge him? The slow anger in his heart began to boil. He was ready to snap at anything. Even as something as gentle as a pat to his shoulder, which Emma immediately regretted.

"Hey Ethan… if… if you need anything… Counseling, I know someone who-"

"I don't need your FUCKING HELP!", he spat back. The remorse came shortly after. "I'm sorry… *sigh* …I shouldn't have said that."

Again, he let his emotions out, with no care to the consequences. The Frenchwoman gasped when he lashed at her, surprised by his sudden hostility. Ethan looked away to compose himself. He wanted to say sorry. But there was nary a nod nor a smile from his friend to tell that no harm was done; instead, she turned her face away from him. She went back to Meghan's desk to review the files again. She traced her finger across the screen, presumably to where her eyes went as she gave the files another lookover. The blonde woman, meanwhile, placed her hands on her waist, keeping a positive mood. Both of them clearly wanted to change the topic, bring it back to the task at hand.

"This place that the CIA found… Where is it exactly?"

"…Oregon."

Emma's question had an obvious answer, but it was the best way she could think of to ease the tension in the room.

…

* * *

"The Compound", Outskirts of Redmond, Oregon  
1135 hours

Day 13

…

 _"To everyone inside the building! Surrender your weapons at once and come out with your hands up!_ "

…

The siege had been going on for a couple of days. There was nothing to show for it. It started when a state trooper parked outside the farm and knocked on the gate. A rifle bullet dinged his cap, so he scurried back to his car and called for backup. Eventually, more cops arrived. A fucking stand-off. Since then, they'd been barking demands of surrender with megaphones and occasionally exchanged gunfire, thus keeping things interesting. Nobody had been killed or injured yet, but the stir was quite enough to attract the damn news crews. The Compound's electricity was cut yesterday, but the police didn't count on its occupants to have backup generators to keep the lights on. The phones were still working, despite the FBI's best efforts. The TVs still had excellent signal, and this allowed the masked men holed up in the building to watch the news and monitor the action outside. 'White Masks in Redmond! Day 2 of Siege', so went the headline for today.

What they were about to do was nothing more than a charade, really. A deception for the real thing.

From the second-floor bedroom, Caleb peered out of the window with his Steiner 10x50. The lenses painted a not-so grim picture. There were about a couple of dozen police cars and vans parked outside the Compound's perimeter. Each of them had blinking police lights, flickering with hues of red and blue that pestered the glass on the window panes. Huddled between the vehicles were groups of people, all decked out with dark blue tactical gear and high-powered weapons. They all had gas masks and black FAST helmets, ready to move in. It was a convention of law enforcement agencies: FBI, ATF, Oregon State Police. No doubt that a dozen more of them were on the flanks, completely surrounding the place. At least two news choppers were up in the sky.

Negotiations were loud and senseless, probably overcompensating for the pathetic firepower that the 'good guys' brought today. But the Bossman had anticipated this. Strangely, he left standing orders that nobody at the Compound would open unless the cops showed the courtesy first. Only firmly worded statements of defiance were delivered: 'Leave us' and 'We will never surrender!' plastered on the Compound's outer walls. The words were bold, but they didn't actually mirror the sentiments of the rank-and-file. With supplies trickling out and more police units waiting outside, they couldn't appreciate the advantageous situation they were actually in. Who could blame them? They knew that today might be their last.

"Jesus Christ, look at 'em all!", a masked man with an AUG exclaimed. "We're seriously gonna do this, Caleb?"

"Shut up and keep your weapon down.", he coldly replied.

He continued looking out with his binoculars. The M40 rested across his chest, held in place by the sling. He donned a crimson hoodie and lightweight webbing, only carrying the bare-minimum kit to be fleet-footed. His white balaclava was curled up over his bald head. He was calm and composed, unlike many of the other shooters crouching with him. They were quiet, sure, but the anxiety was quite bare in their feet and fingers.

The former Marine grinned sardonically. He had been in this scenario before. There was this one time in Ramadi, some nine odd years ago, where he and his squad were ordered to hold position at a police precinct. They were well-stocked and well-equipped to hunker down for three days, ready to fight off any hostile who dared flank the 1st Division's push into the city. The squad ended up staying for a week. Dozens of bodies had already littered the ground by the time he was relieved by another unit.

The carnage he'd seen was the tipping point. He was a fool to hold on for a few more years until the discharge came. But he learned a lot from that mission. Day in and day out was a battle, every bullet was a harbinger of death. A desperate struggle for sure, but sorties from Super Cobras saved his squad from near total annihilation. 'Force multipliers', as the instructors at Parris Island would call them. They played a big role back then, and they would do so again today. Instead of a radio and an IR strobe, Caleb would have to rely on automated machine guns, jammers, and dirty bombs to see him through. No insurgents to kill this time- only the country's best and finest boys in blue. The fact that he was about to gun down fellow Americans was irrelevant. Many of his comrades felt the same.

"Caleb? Adam just called this morning.", one man reported. "He's askin' for a sitrep on the Alamo."

'Alamo' being the codeword for the Compound on this occasion.

"That fucking little… Go cut the wires. He'll compromise his position if he keeps using the damn phone."

"The search parties haven't turned up anything yet, right? I think he's safe in that cold-ass boat of his."

The bald sniper ignored the comment and continued observing with his binoculars. He watched for anything amiss in the cops' usual MO for besieging an enemy stronghold. Despite his dour demeanor, he was impressed by the numbers and show of force, all splayed before him. Some of the cops had riot shields, presumably to take point during the advance. Others had shotguns, presumably loaded with breaching roads and buckshot, for entry and close range combat. The rest were wielding M4s of all stripes. They were taking the situation very seriously. They were about to attack. But there was one thing missing…

 _I wonder if Rainbow is out there too?_

There was no sign of the famed commandos. He scanned from left to right, as far as his peripheral vision allowed, and scrutinized every car, tree, fence, and bush he could find. He kept looking for that big dude with a sledgehammer on his back or anyone with a wrist-mounted gizmo. He observed them in Bartlett more than a week ago, and he knew that these people loved using a mix of local and foreign equipment. Alas, they were nowhere to be found, much to the stoic killer's disappointment. Did they not take the bait? Knowing them, they certainly wouldn't resist the allure of 'cutting off the head of the snake' and the Bossman was so sure that they would fall for it. But if they were indeed out there in the perimeter, it was more likely that they would be mingling with the cops and wearing their colors. If that was true, then Caleb and his men had their work cut out for them. There would be no need to identify and discriminate targets.

They would just need to kill everyone.

*beep! beep!*

It sounded like the computer to his right let out a faint ringing. He turned around. He thought he saw a small silhouette hide underneath the bed, but he saw nothing.

Puzzled, he instead attended to one of his comrades, a masked man operating the laptop that had access to the Compound's security cameras. For a moment, Caleb surmised that there was no activity in the parking lot and the junkyard. The indoor cameras also showed no enemy movement. Then, he looked at the guy manning the laptop, who gave him a thumbs up in response. The automated guns were ready to spew hot lead with the push of a button. The jammers were ready to disrupt signals and keep the cops from coordinating. Wall barricades were already set up, the basement's already secured, and everyone else was locked and loaded. Everything was set. Chaos was the only thing they're left to wait for.

"This is Top Gun, jammers are in place.", Caleb radioed. "Sound off."

"Red, in position."

"Blue, ready."

"Gold, ready and waiting."

"Black, in place and ready."

Old codenames, but for different people and under different circumstances. So far so good. Once again, he turned to look at his own team of masked shooters, huddled beside him. They were ready. Ready to make history for the second time. They were about to pull off a charade unlike what this country had ever seen before.

"Alright you fucks. Remember the playbook. The whole world's come here for retribution; let's make sure they regret it."

They responded with silent nods.

"Hold the Alamo at all costs. Kill everyone they send, and they'll stop coming."

…

" _This is your last warning! Lay down your weapons and come out of the building with your hands up!_ "

…

The cops finally delivered their last warning. It was game time. A few of the men chuckled quietly, like any defiant soul would do when facing the firing squad. The White Mask sniper lowered the balaclava over his head and depressed the safety switch on his rifle, ready to drill a hole into the first head he saw outside. The rest of the men leveled their guns, aiming through makeshift murder holes and gaps near the windows. They were all anticipating the first shot to come from the cops. Then it was silence…

Caleb raised his rifle carefully to keep the barrel from sticking out of the tiny hole in the bedroom. From the scope's crosshairs, he could see armed police officers fanning out into their little entry teams. Single-file columns, with at least five men each. The point men had their ballistic shields facing the front, while the second men had their own shields raised overhead to provide cover from gunfire up on high. It was a mix of SWAT and FBI personnel, bearing down and the advance came at a brisk pace. Oddly enough, they didn't have any counter-snipers for the bald man to contend with, so that looked like a good sign. It was either suicidal confidence or foolish bravery that kept the cops together as they advanced without their own sharpshooters to cover them.

More cops began to converge to the outer perimeter. Once he counted about four teams had ventured to the parking lot and the junkyard, Caleb signaled with his right hand. Another masked man nodded, and pressed the detonator he was fumbling with.

*BOOM!*

IEDs planted outside, filled with nails and drill bits exploded simultaneously, causing the ground to shake and some glass panes to shatter. The sudden blasts of C4 produced bright flames to spew in the scrapyard and the front gate, inspiring fear from the trained SWAT cops. All semblance of cohesion and confidence left them as additional explosions broke out, their terrified screams drowned out those from their injured comrades. It was complete pandemonium, which was exactly what Caleb had in mind.

"Now!", he radioed.

What came next was a torrent of gunfire from him and the other masked men, cutting down any unfortunate soul they saw. The armed officers who survived the initial blasts immediately returned fire, but their bullets did not penetrate the reinforced barricades behind the walls and windows. Pings of metal and hot lead crashed to each other, intermeshed with the tattling of empty shell casings on the floor. Each of the heavily-armed, white-faced men saw the carnage below them as a frigging turkey shoot. For the sniper, it was a dull routine of identifying priority targets and picking them off one at a time. Survivors from the initial stacks of attackers began to retreat, shields raised to protect their backs as they returned to their positions behind the parked police cars.

It was a fatal mistake. Caleb nodded to another man as a signal. In turn, he radioed to the men of Red Team, who were positioned at the Alamo's tower. The sound of turning gears was soon replaced by the distinctive clanking of firing chambers being loaded with fresh bullets. Then, the barrels began to whirl. The Alamo's symphony began.

*Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!*

GShG-7.62s. Automated machineguns from Ukraine, smuggled thanks to their allies in Hong Kong, sprang to life with vicious vengeance. Their tracers tore into metal, glass, and asphalt as they perforated the gathering of police cars outside with copious amounts of firepower. More screams of fear came from the officers, each of them panicking or yelling their fellows to seek cover. Many were cut down behind their pathetic protection. The show of force was downright terrifying to behold, but none more so than the news crews circling above. From the live TV feeds, Caleb could see the intrepid reporters suddenly cut their broadcasts and squeal in abject dread as the bullets tattered their helicopters.

"Pour it on 'em boys!", one of the masked men yelled.

Amidst the cacophony, Caleb still found the time to talk to his radio. Everything was working well so far, but he had to make sure.

"All teams, sitrep."

"Red here, Tower's secure and the guns are at 100 percent!"

"Blue, light casualties sustained. Ground floor is holding!"

"Gold here! Taking a lot of flak at the office wing, but we're still holding!"

…

Something was wrong. Someone didn't call in.

"Black what's your status?"

…

Caleb heard nothing but silence in the airwaves.

"Black, are you there?"

"…"

Cursing in his head, the sniper signaled to his men that he was shifting positions. They nodded as he stood up from his firing post, undeterred by the rounds bouncing off the reinforced walls and concrete.

Black Team. Those idiots at the basement were supposed to keep the supply cache and back entrance secure, which was an easy enough job for a ten-man crew guarding a narrow hallway. They also had the gas grenades and extra det packs stored there, which would only be used as a last resort. But somehow, something went terribly wrong. Caleb rushed down the stairs as fast as he could, with his sniper rifle slung across his shoulder. As he ventured closer to the basement, the sounds of desperation and pandemonium became louder.

"Fire in the hole!", he heard a distant yell. A few moments later, there came a loud thud that shook the basement.

At last, he came across the supply cache. Inside the dimly-lit room, some stacks of crates and boxes were overturned, but intact. Empty shell casings and magazines littered the floor. Defending the small room were several masked men, firing into a perforated wooden wall. On the other side were a squad of cops with M4s, responding to the greeting in kind from behind riot shields. It was an FBI entry team, which had wrested control of the adjacent escape tunnel as it was marked by blue chem lights. Four out of ten from Black Team were laying dead on the floor, as the rest exchanged gunfire with their shotguns and AUGs. So many loud bangs of firearms in such a confined space, anyone without any ear protection would be deafened if they spent more than a few seconds in there. Obviously, the sniper rifle would be useless here.

The chaos didn't deter Caleb, however, as he still had the presence of mind to act accordingly. Realizing the situation, he quickly made his way to one of the crates in the supply room and took out a brick of C4. Black Team was using it as an IED- a makeshift circuit and cellphone connected to a detonator with dark adhesive material. He took off the sticky patch like a piece of velcro and activated the phone, then he tossed the device to the small crowd of cops. They didn't pay attention to it at first, until they heard the incessant beeping. They realized to late what just happened, when the masked sniper with the red hoodie brought out another phone and pressed a button.

*BOOM!*

The blast immediately silenced any screams of fear or pain from those caught within it. The bomb was strong enough to level a huge chunk of the escape tunnel, which left the surviving members of Black Team gasping in terror. When the smoke cleared, tempers started to flare.

"You could've fuckin' killed us!", one of them lashed out.

"You want them to get inside?", Caleb drew a pistol on him. "You fuckers were supposed to keep them out of the basement."

"They overwhelmed us, man! They had flashbangs, they got shields, and we-"

"Not one more word…"

He cocked the hammer on his sidearm to emphasize his point. The other man got the message and piped down, as the rest of his comrades succumbed to the silence. The sniper was quite close to blowing the poor guy's head off to punish their incompetence. The very last of America's True Patriots. They knew the Compound better than the rest of everyone, but their courage and combat skills were subpar. Just like their leader, Mr. Fausse. Nobody would mourn them after the shit they stirred in Los Angeles. Nobody would ever give them to courtesy of a second chance, as brothers-in-arms would normally do. Black Team wasn't aware of the role they would play today.

"…Guard the supply room with your lives.", Caleb ordered them, sternly. "They're gonna try and break in again. Don't let them."

None dared to reply. Except for a young man, scared out of his wits. The fear was rife, even from behind the ivory-white mask.

"Sir… T-This is just like you and Ramadi, right?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"S-Some of the guys been talkin'. How d-did you… make it out alive?"

Unwittingly, Caleb chuckled and shook his head, quite out of character. He tried to come up with a snappy comeback, but the only thing he could think of was the cold hard truth. His smile was quite genuine, and morbid. Pity that the balaclava hid his expression.

"Easy… Everyone else died."

As quickly as he'd arrived, the sniper turned around and left the kid and the rest. They were dead men. They didn't notice that he was carrying a detonator, all this time.

It was time to return to the second floor, dodging ricochets and the occasional bullet penetration as he went. It appeared that the cops were putting up a decent fight, even after the casualties they had sustained. Many of them were getting frantic, judging from the tone of their voice and the louder shouting they did. Caleb went back to the bedroom and pushed aside one of his men who was observing the security cameras. A quick assessment of the feeds shed more light on the current situation, and it wasn't good. The gunfire was becoming more concentrated. The cops were gearing up for another push, as if they were being whipped into shape. Worse, some of the radio jammers in the Alamo had suddenly went offline. It wasn't good; the devices were intended to stop the cops from talking to each other.

Caleb frowned. This wasn't part of the plan. Sure he expected things to eventually go south, but he expected to proceed to the next phase much sooner. The plan hinged on the cops moving in after the Alamo had expended all of its ammunition. Preferably more than enough time for 'Top Gun' to make his getaway, as what the Bossman wanted him to do. Only then would the finale come: send their message to the masses, turn the good guys' little foray in Oregon into an incredibly costly trip. There seemed to be a variable that he failed to notice.

*beep! beep!*

There it was again. The mystery noise. Caleb looked to his left to see where it came from. There was silhouette underneath the bed…

…

… _Oh shit_.

It was a little robot, shaped like a box. It had wheels on either side and it had a set of tiny, blinking LEDs in the front chassis. It was like something he had seen in Iraq, a bot that the Navy's EOD techs loved using. But this one was much smaller and quieter. He was about to get a closer look at the drone when its front plate suddenly retracted, revealing a nasty set of darts arranged in rows. One of the darts shot itself out of the compartment and went straight to his head, but he dodged it with a split-second. The computer got the business end of the pointy-thing instead, and it started to fizzle violently and burn out.

Caleb's first instinct was to smash the drone with the buttstock of his rifle.

*Smack!*

"What the fuck was that for!?", one of his comrades chastised him.

The masked sniper let his eyes do the talking, bringing the other man's attention to the small robot underneath the bed, now shattered to a few bits. Its circuits began to spark with the last vestiges of electricity until they went out for good. The drone was a scout, equipped with a shock probe of sorts, that the cops might had been using to reconnoiter the Compound's defenses. If that was the case, then they already scoped out the resistance on the second floor, and likely the ground floor, the tower, the office wing, and the basement as well. But what was that faint beeping sound? What happened to the radio jammers?

With questions filling his head, Caleb suddenly found himself looking at the window beside him. Nearby was another masked shooter, doing his bit with an AUG and raining down hell on the cops outside. The guy was thrilled to be fighting. The sniper, on the other hand, was silent. It was as if he wanted to warn the masked man about… something. Call it intituiton, but he could just feel something bad was about to happen. The drone, the electric dart, the blinking light, and the beeps were all dead giveaways that only a seasoned veteran could put together.

"Hey. Ever seen a match-grade round traveling 3,000 feet per second go through a window?", he asked.

The other man looked to him, his eyes looking puzzled from the slits of his mask. Then a moment later, a jet of glass on the window pane flew off, followed by a zipping sound and a crunching of ballistic material and human flesh. The masked man fell, lifeless, with a gaping hole appearing on the left side of his cranium. A bloody mess oozed out into the bedroom floor.

"Nobody does.", Caleb sighed. Some of the blood sprayed onto his balaclava. "Everyone get down!"

It was a sniper. About damn time.

…

* * *

…

Ethan exhaled deeply, calming his nerves and relaxing his chest muscles back to normal. Controlled breathing was a valuable lesson he took to heart in Sniper School, a way to keep his shots steady and his aim true. It served him well before and it would do so again today.

The target he just took out was standing behind a tinted window. It was a target he couldn't have seen if it weren't for the smart thinking of his partner, who brought a couple of her little robots with her today. Pity that the FBI only gave them clearance to use the damn things until _after_ the shootout started. It took the former French Army Engineer quite a while to locate the jammers and neutralize them with shock probes, but it wasn't enough. She had little time to navigate her babies throughout the building, to find a way to neutralize the automated guns at the tower, and her drone was wrecked because of it. But on the other hand, she did a good job at slipping through the terrorists' defenses and marking their locations. The imager on the sniper's helmet allowed him to scope out the terrorists as red pings.

"Hostile neutralized…", Emma radioed. "…Moving secondary shock drone into position."

Her callout was noted in Ethan's head. Briefly, he looked away from the ACOG mounted on his 417 marksman rifle to observe the chaos, some 500 meters away from his sniping position. It was a sobering sight. Emily's intel didn't say anything about computer-controlled machineguns and anti-personnel mines. Once again the cops paid dearly for a simple misstep. Ethan could hear screams and frantic calls for help in the radio frequencies, to which a young dispatcher tried her best to respond to them all. The distant sound of gunfire and flashbangs echoed throughout the perimeter. Up above, the news choppers flew away to a safer distance, hoping to avoid the sentry guns' maximum range. What was supposed to be a by-the-numbers raid had become another shit-fest that would no doubt attract the Homeland Security's ire.

At least the resistance shown today proved that Meghan was right to deploy a team to Redmond. This place _had to be_ the White Masks' headquarters, or at least one of their most important strongholds. Taking it out would likely put a dent on their plans for Freedom Day. But surprisingly, Team Rainbow's response was far more subdued this time around. Only three operators were deployed: two of them lying prone in a ditch just to the south of the Compound's location. Their colleague, Miles Campbell, was on-site playing armchair general in the FBI mobile command center, quite a ways from the action. Or perhaps 'consultant' would be a better term, seeing that the international counter-terror taskforce was once again a 'special response unit' loaned to the locals. All three members of Alpha Team donned the same tactical gear and blue overalls as the rest of the cops; 'Police' was written in white letters on their backs.

"Twitch. You there?", the radio came to life.

"Affirmative, Castle. Come in."

"Field commander wants you to maintain overwatch. They're relocating sharpshooters to a new position, so you guys are on your own out there for now. Copy?"

"I copy… _Merde_ , this doesn't look good. We have to lend your friends a hand."

"I'll pass the word along, but don't get your hopes up. FBI insists being on point for this one…"

"I know that. But-"

"Let it go, partner.", Ethan turned to her. "Valkyrie said we're on a 'support-role' only. Let's just do our jobs."

"Easy for you to say…", she muttered.

There was an undertone of bitterness in her voice. One could assume that it was directed at the current situation, but what happened a couple of days ago would cast doubts on that. Or at least, that was what the sniper thought. He glanced at her. She looked serious while she fumbled with the wrist-mounted device that controlled her precious RSD-1s. From what little time he spent with her, Ethan knew that she would normally have this pleasant expression of eagerness and unbridled focus when she's in the field. There was none of that today. Instead, it was a lingering anger from the way she frowned while her fingers manipulated the drone controls. This anger, he thought, might be linked to the pangs of shame he still felt in his heart.

He needed to say something.

"Hey. I'm glad you're here with me today…", he spoke in a soft voice. "…You didn't have to volunteer for this, after… you know."

Those were the most contrite words he could come up with. 'I'm sorry' didn't cut it, in his own foolish man. The truth was far less complicated. The man kept himself cool, but he also felt the urge to punch himself in the gut for such bad form. The Frenchwoman, meanwhile, glanced at him with an accusing look. It made him a little uncomfortable, until a small grin began to form in her pouted lips. She was teasing him, again.

"I can't let you boys have all the fun, right?"

Ethan reciprocated the smile. It was nice to see no hard feelings remained after all.

"Sorry about your drone.", he changed the topic.

"Meh. Better it than our friends. Or us."

Another round of smiles, a small miracle. He didn't think he would find comfort in such a tense and dire situation. He had every reason to go into full-action mode after just witnessing what the White Masks were capable of. But he needed the few seconds of peace to calm his nerves and strengthen his resolve. True enough, the bliss was cut short by another radio message. This time, it was from an encrypted frequency and a less garbled channel. A woman's voice. It was Meghan, sitting tight in a control room somewhere, hundreds of miles away from the battle.

"Alpha-Three, this is Valkyrie. Check in."

Ethan pushed his radio's call button in response.

"Lima Charlie. Send it."

"Six-Actual is watching JSOC's overhead feed; requesting mission status."

"Significant enemy presence at the Compound, multiple friendly casualties sustained. Tangos have automatic weapons, anti-personnel mines, and explosives, how copy?"

"Check all. We've requested reinforcements from Salem and Redmond; JSOC's also cleared to move in."

"Roger that. Alpha-Two recommends we shift our rules of engagement, over."

"*sigh* Tell Twitch that's a negative. Maintain current ROE, provide operational support. That was the deal."

"Wilco."

A sigh of disappointment escaped Emma's lips. But none more so than Rainbow's intelligence officer, who originally didn't want Rainbow to be involved in this little foray. She allowed a compromise after she'd authenticated the old ATF reports in Redmond and Willamette. And of course, Six had to be let on into the intel as well, who also wasn't so happy when she heard it. She had a lot of stipulations.

Who could blame her? FBI, ATF, and OSP had bitten off more than they could chew when the White Masks deployed their big guns. There would be a lot of dead and maimed men to comb over once this business was done. To the cops' credit, they continued to brave the hailstorm of lead and fight on with grim determination. Good thing that Miles volunteered to lead Rainbow's intervention, because the carnage unfolding before them was something that Ethan wouldn't want to sort out on his own. Emma tagging along was also a welcome sight, because nobody else could use her shock drones for great effect in this situation. The only thing left for her and the two men was to pray for a miracle. A miracle that the cops could pull off a tenacious play, breach the Compound, and neutralize all hostiles before-

*BOOOOOM!*

Suddenly, the ground shook with tremendous force as the main building erupted into a massive fireball, blowing off the roof wide open. Lying flat on his belly, Ethan felt his organs rumble. It felt like the blast came from beneath the ground. Perhaps the basement.

"HOLY SHIT!", he exclaimed.

"What's going on?!", Meghan radioed. She likely saw the whole thing on camera. "Alpha-Three! What the hell just happened?!"

"Massive explosion at the Compound! There's… Oh shit!"

Amidst the inferno, a yellowish cloud started to pour out of the massive hole. At first, it looked like ordinary fumes from flame makes contact with a combustible material. The thought was far off the mark, as the thick cloud began to settle and spread throughout the place. This was no ordinary fire. Team Rainbow had seen this before.

Bartlett University.

"Gas! Gas! Gas!", Miles yelled over at the radio.

From the color and the behavior of the smoke, there's no doubt that they just saw a dispersal of Compound Z. The same weapon that Mohandes peddled to the White Masks, the same weapon that snuffed out dozens of young lives in Cambridge not too long ago. What happened next was a reflex that all Rainbow troopers were taught after that fateful day. Without missing a beat, Ethan and Emma brought out the gas masks strapped on their backs and worn them over their faces. They changed the filters on the fly and checked their suit's toxin levels as a precaution. Then, they brought their attention to Miles, who was much closer to the epicenter of the blast.

"Alpha-One, what's your status?!", Ethan asked frantically. His voice was muffled by the mask.

"Command center's locked down, Alpha-Three! Masks on, we're good here."

It was a relief. But they weren't out of the woods yet.

"Valkyrie, this is Alpha-Three… Mass casualty event at the battle site…", Ethan radioed. "…I say again, mass casualty event on-site! Chemical weapon deployed; we need CBRN units for immediate de-con and containment, how copy?!"

"Jesus fucking Christ… Check that, Alpha. Code Black confirmed."

Then, the chatter in the airwaves went through the roof. More frantic calls for help and desperate screams; so much clutter in the radio that the dispatcher had a hard time getting things organized. But from what little that the two Rainbow troopers could gleam from, it seemed that some of the cops were trapped inside the blazing inferno. The rest of their friends were so focused on the casualties outside that none of them were scurrying to help.

There was no time to think, no decision to be made. Ethan and Emma exchanged stern looks, and then they nodded at each other. They knew the score. They reloaded their rifles, stood up to check their gear. While the GIGN engineer fiddled on the PDA mounted on her left forearm, the American sniper double-checked the medkit on his chest rig. He was deep in thought. Fires had broken out of the front door, the back office, and the second floor. This meant that, if he remembered the floorplans correctly, the best way to enter the Compound at this point was through the basement. None of the cops had full NBC gear but they did have gas masks of their own, so they had at least ten minutes before the toxins would kill them. Assuming that they encountered no resistance, three heavily-armed people can sweep the entire place in five minutes or less with no trouble.

"Valkyrie, I'm getting reports of multiple friendlies down, priority requests for emergency medevac… How far away are the rescue crews?"

"CBRN units and EMTs are en route, Alpha-Three. Hold position!"

Ethan glanced at his partner again. She nodded back. With that, he pressed his radio's call button, ready to voice his conviction.

"Negative. Requesting permission to move in, over."

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** Okay, it was not my intention to have this chapter be _somewhat_ thematically similar to the upcoming Operation Chimera DLC. From the beginning, I envisioned the confrontation at Redmond to end with a chemical outbreak. Don't expect to see any aliens, zombies, or whatever for the rest of this fanfic; I will stick with my original plan. Those might come in the future though, we'll see. :)


	13. Chapter 12 - Code Black

.

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve - "Code Black"**

* * *

…

"Alpha-Three, permission denied…"

"Valkyrie, give us five minutes and we can sweep for survivors…", Ethan tried to argue. "…We gotta move now before our window closes!"

"Not my call, I'm sorry. This one came straight from the top… Treadway just barged into the Ops room; he saw the whole thing."

"…Fuck."

A heavy sigh. The explosion at the Compound was an unexpected development. The leaking chemical weapon only made the day worse. But another problem was about to join the pile. Director Robert Treadway of Homeland Security. Ethan never knew the man personally, but his acerbic reputation with the men and women of Rainbow preceded him. If he was about to be involved in calling the shots, then this operation had truly reared its ugly head. One could only imagine the scene at Bragg right now. A pissed-off suit with eyeglasses slamming the door open, demanding answers from the first person he came across. A whole lot of shouting and bickering. It gave no justice to the people who just lost their lives on the other side of the country.

The siege of the White Masks' stronghold was still underway. This was not the proper time for a sparring match between two supposed-allies. There were more pressing matters to attend to, like the raging inferno and the outbreak of a chemical weapon in the outskirts of Redmond. Whatever kind of explosive material the terrorists had stored in the basement, it was also laced with the distinctive yellowish toxins that they also used in Bartlett University almost two weeks ago. The poisonous cloud spread unopposed, threatening to close off an area the size of a city block. Rainbow's intelligence officer said that CBRN and rescue units were en route. But if she would be having a hard time coordinating with them all, now that she's saddled with 'protocol' and 'rules of engagement'.

Every fiber of Ethan's being was telling him to act, defy orders one more time. Somehow, he felt that Meghan was of the same mind, but she had no choice other than to deny him his request. Her next words were rather reluctant.

"All Blue Force callsigns are to disengage…", she continued. "…That includes JSOC and us. Hold position and await further instructions, how copy?"

They sounded more like Treadway's orders. So much for this being the FBI's show.

"Alpha-One here, requesting update on our ROE…", Miles spoke over the radio. "…We're gettin' medevac requests all across the board; Tac Teams are down or have their hands full, over."

"Maintain eyes on the building, Castle. DHS is assuming operational control. They said to… W-Wait, hold on…"

The pause was unexpected. There was a quick burst of static and abrupt ruffling of wires, seemingly sounding like Meghan had just pulled her headset away. The radio came to life again after a couple seconds of silence. Surprisingly, there was a different person speaking on the other line.

A woman. A commanding one.

"Team. This is Six…"

The firm, authoritative voice stopped Alpha Team in their tracks. Blindsided by the boss lady's sudden message, Emma turned to her partner- green eyes behind the tinted gas mask lenses looked visibly concerned. The other soldier, with his grey ones, met her gaze in silent contemplation. He bid her not to worry, but his gut told him otherwise. Some deep shit was bound to happen, now that they got the veritable supreme commander's attention. In just a heartbeat, the mission had gone awry, a handful of good men were snuffed out, and Rainbow's supposedly minor role was suddenly overturned. There was only one outcome. He briefly imagined their boss's anxiety, bubbling beneath that poker face of hers.

"…You guys have a better view down there than any of us over here… so I ought to make sure you all know what you're asking for."

Miles, the designated team leader, quickly stepped up.

"Six-Actual, request we switch off overwatch profile and initiate search-and-retrieval for downed friendlies, over."

"I trust you know that the AO is a danger zone? We don't even have a twenty on enemy presence in the area… You'll be putting yourselves in significant risk."

"Roger that."

"And you still want to go in?"

" _Oui, Madame_.", Emma suddenly cut in, pointing out that everyone was on board with the idea. "We can still help, but we need to move fast. We're short on time."

Director Six paused. Amidst the clashing noises of the fire, sirens, and shouts for help, her silence over the airwaves was incredibly deafening for the three operators. No doubt that she was considering all the factors, weighing the consequences and the benefits. Treadway breathing down her neck was a huge kicker, but she quickly made up her mind. Her response came a moment later, speaking with a wearied tone of resignation. It was the only thing that a competent and respectable leader could do.

"*sigh* Fine. Do what you can."

"Ma'am, what about Treadway?", Miles asked.

"Leave him to me… Three minutes, then get the hell out."

Emancipation, against all odds. Alpha Team knew the score. With their orders clear and the green light given, Ethan and Emma set off with all haste to link up with their comrade, who was with the FBI commander near the battlezone. Their timetable was a lot shorter this time, but they prayed it was enough for them to work with. It had to be, now that somebody else was undoubtedly threatening to overrule the boss lady herself. Rainbow's objective: rescue an unknown number of cops trapped inside the burning building. Easier said than done, since Alpha Team only had the most basic kit with them this afternoon, not counting the Class-4 MOPP suits that would shield them from the harmful elements. No rescue gear, no extra respirators, and sure as hell no heartbeat sensors. Nothing but an extra medkit to treat the wounded with.

How many survived the blast anyway? What caused it? Semtex? Propane? Regardless, the answer to that question wouldn't solve Rainbow's problems. The toxic smoke was the bigger threat. Not only did it turn the entire AO into Ground Zero, the chemical weapon left behind a lot of particulates that could be carried by the wind. In other words, Redmond: the city proper was several miles away, but it could be contaminated if a strong gust happened to pass by even for a few seconds. Such was the sinister reality of today.

It was starting to feel that the White Masks had planned this all along…

…

 _"Priority message to all units in this frequency. Situation has been elevated to Code Black_ … _Repeat: situation has been elevated to Code Black_ … _All Tac Teams are to establish emergency containment perimeter and initiate triage on all on-site personnel_ … _"_

…

Ethan discarded all speculation and continued to run. Ignoring the blaring message from the FBI dispatcher, he let his feet take him to the inferno's direction. His partner was close behind, cradling a scoped 417 in her arms, as they made their way to Miles' position. They were eager to throw themselves into the fray, gamble their lives in a brash rescue mission.

But something didn't feel right. It was as if the chaos ahead was telling them to back off before it was too late. Ominous portents were everywhere. The yellow smoke that spewed from the ruined building had started to settle into the ground, contaminating the dust and the grass with milligrams of poison. Large debris were scattered about. The fires ahead bellowed furiously from the carcass like a flaming monster. Sirens and masked screams continued to echo. A few bodies were strewn about, still wearing the dark-colored tactical gear from when they lived. The mid-day sun shone proudly, barely covered by the clouds, and overshadowed by the scene of devastation. Hell on earth.

Rainbow needed to regroup, fast. Only one man was responsible for all of this. Mohandes. Adam Kipper. Traitor and mass murderer. Ethan would gladly let him burn to death if the bastard was somehow trapped inside. If not, a bullet between the eyes would provide the same satisfaction. The thought was comforting, as much as he wanted to deny it. He would look for him in the chaos.

"Alpha-One, I got Alpha-Two with me, we're just a few seconds from the command vehicle."

"Standing by, Ace. Anythin' you want from the shop?"

"A crowbar and some extra mags would be nice."

"You got it man."

"Castle…", Emma also radioed. "…I think we're also gonna need Julien's care package for us."

"Female intuition, huh? Say no more."

The sniper briefly pondered what she was talking about. His curiosity quickly left him when he reached the cold, bullet-ridden shell of the FBI MRAP: the mobile command center.

*knock knock*

His little greeting was met by a twist of the mechanical lock from the inside. The steel doors swung open a moment after, revealing the bulky figure of Miles Campbell, who was completely unrecognizable under his dark grey hazard suit and breathing apparatus. He had a UMP45 strapped to his waist, plus a dark prying bar on one hand and a large duffel bag on the other. He hopped out of the MRAP, then tossed the gifts to his fellows.

"Kit up guys."

Ethan started to load his ammo pouch with more magazines for his trusted H&K417. He strapped the crowbar into his backpack, which he would use to remove any obstructions he might encounter. Search and rescue training kicked in, forcing him to remember everything he learned about emergency triage, hot zone navigation, rescue tracking, and the like. However, his knowledge also told him just how grossly under-equipped everyone was for the task. But time was not on their side. To hell with sensible planning.

"You still have execute authority, Miles…", he spoke. "…We won't go without your say-so."

"You're kidding right?", the other man scoffed. "We have friendlies trapped in there. I think you know what we gotta do."

It was a trite answer to a pointless question, seeing that they were ready to move in anyway. They proceeded to sort out their gear for the inevitable foray into the unknown. Small arms, flashlights, radios, and their suits' many systems. Then there's the dark duffel bag. Emma opened it, briefly checking if everything was in order.

"Here. Take two.", she handed out its contents. "Front and back. Make sure they fit your armor inserts."

"They better. That kid went outta his way to ship these to us from England yesterday.", Miles spoke heartily.

The thick sheets of metal were R1N ceramic trauma plates, a specialty of the Gendermarie Nacional. Ethan had seen these before in Satory; they were a sort-of trademark of the GIGN when initiating their new bloods. A bullet to the chest as a symbol of trust. The lightweight armor panels could protect their bearers from medium-caliber rounds, but they didn't do squat against explosives and chemical weapons. Surely they were an odd choice of equipment for a rescue mission, but just like Miles said, Emma's instincts were telling her to be ready for anything.

There was a note left behind in the bag. It was in French, causing the female soldier to chuckle for a bit and mutter some of the words quite audibly. _Mon p'tit frère_. 'My little brother', Ethan translated in his head.

"Alpha-Three reporting in.", he radioed to Meghan. "Prep-phase complete, ready to move to entry point."

"Check… I suppose there's no stopping you guys, huh?"

"Six gave us the nod."

He could sense another heated argument between him and the intel officer, at the worst possible timing. He was relieved to learn that was not the case.

"I know. Just making sure if you're all-in on this one."

"Thanks… Treadway's not gonna like this, though.", Ethan whispered.

"Six will handle the politics. You guys just stay alive. Got it?"

"Wilco. Keep us posted."

With that, Ethan followed Miles as he and Emma began to sally out. The ex-FBI SWAT signaled with his left hand, telling his comrades to form up behind him in single file. They advanced at a brisk pace, unafraid, towards the construction site, east of the burning Compound. They ignored the casualties that littered the ground and tended to by their still-living comrades. As callous as it sounded, Rainbow had more important things to do than to tend the dead and the wounded. The White Mask stronghold was a blazing ruin, but the mission was far from over.

They made their way past a bullet-riddled SWAT van and an inert excavator, moving around the White Masks' pre-established killzone to make their entry via the north entrance. None of them knew what to expect inside the fiery farm complex. Judging from the explosion that rocked their world not too long ago, secondary blasts from within the building were a distinct possibility. The flames would also be a problem for Rainbow's MOPP suits, since the thermo-shielding wouldn't last long against a chemical fire of this magnitude. Least of all was the prospect of an IED or a lone gunman, left behind as an unwelcome surprise. Ethan and his two comrades tried their best to ignore the fear of failure, gnawing at them.

"Valkyrie, we're at the back entrance."

"Check that, Alpha-One. UAV has good overhead, IFF signals are clear… Start the clock."

Too late to call it quits now.

Alpha Team formed up just a couple of inches from the door. Miles kept his UMP raised while his other hand reached for the knob. Thick, black smoke was emanating from the hinges and the keyhole. When his Nomex glove touched the metallic knob, there came a sharp, sizzling sound. The temperature gauges told them the building's interior was well over a hundred degrees Centigrade. The sudden rise of heat crawling at their suits' outer skin only drove the point home, but they went inside nonetheless, one man covering the other. The well-drilled maneuvers was a testament to their bravery and commitment in spite of terrible odds.

"Team, on me. Let's keep it tight.", Miles ordered. "Alpha-Two, you have a signal on your second drone?"

"Hold on… Damn, negative…", Emma remarked bitterly. "The blast must have taken it out… Radio is also starting fizzle, we have to go."

"Roger. Two, watch the rear. Alpha-Three, check the left side."

"Copy, left side.", Ethan replied.

He raised his sound-suppressed rifle, letting the side-mounted torchlight illuminate the murky space ahead of him. Visibility was low. The smoke from the fires was bad enough, the toxic cloud from the White Masks' chemical weapon only made it that much harder to see. Ethan recalled the Compound's blueprints as best he could, but virtually nothing was where it was supposed to be. The explosion had torn the place apart. Ahead of him, the meeting hall was a hollowed out ruin with tongues of flame jutting out. Above was the watchtower where the sentry guns were supposed to be. It would provide an alternative route to the main building if the team needed to get there, but that would mean navigating the perilous rooftops. So, he made his way left and proceeded to the concrete staircase, starting his courageous descent into the Compound's basement area. Some of the SOSs from the cops had come from down there.

"Hello? Is anyone alive? We're here to get you out; don't shoot."

At this point, it didn't matter to Ethan if he was telegraphing his team's presence. They were in rescue mode. Mixed with the overturned crates and rattled toolboxes were pieces of balsa wood, glass, and concrete. Every so often, they saw glimpses of body parts, bloody remains, and charred pieces of flesh. It would seem that the explosion that stalled the FBI's advance also took out a score of terrorists. Clues were pointing that the explosion was an accident; perhaps an errant gunshot had founds its way in the wrong place. But if the blast was self-inflicted, then the White Masks might have been so desperate to stop the Feds from getting inside. A final gamble, a sort of suicide attack to take down as many of their enemies as they could.

Alpha Team pressed on. So far, they saw no sign of fallen friendlies or anyone else calling for help. Undeterred with the absent hope, Ethan continued towards the basement corridor. Again, the chemical weapon's noxious cloud and thick smoke from the fires made it hard to see anything. The tunnel vision from the MOPP suits' gas masks wasn't helping either.

But finally he saw a man, struggling to get up. A bulky-looking one. He was dazed and wobbling like a zombie, probably injured by the blast…

"Guys. I got a live one here!", Ethan told his teammates. "Hey! You alright there pal?"

…Yet, something was off.

It took a few seconds for him to realize that there was something wrong with the mystery man's presentation. For a while, he thought he had seen Mohandes. He superimposed his figure as best as he could remember it. About five-foot-eleven, tan skinned, black hair, a dark chin curtain, and a medium build. Ethan wanted an excuse to put him down on the spot.

Alas, the face was actually a visor. More importantly, the clothes didn't check out. No blue overalls, no black vests, no letters spelling it out "Police" or "FBI" or "ATF". They were pure white. It was not something that Rainbow immediately recognized. Whoever the man was, he also had a rather large knapsack on his back, with cables running all over it. A few orange-colored blocks lined his waist. A peculiar object was also in his hand; something that caused the Delta Force sniper to widen his eyes in panic.

It was beeping.

"Shit! Stay where you are! Drop it! DROP IT!"

He quickly braced the rifle's buttstock against his shoulder and peered into the ACOG. His two teammates followed suit, training their guns at the mystery man. No more ambiguities this time. It was a suicide bomber. The sudden rush of adrenaline was real.

"DROP THE DETONATOR!", Miles shouted. "DO IT NOW!"

The target didn't hear the message. Or perhaps he didn't intend to. Rather than comply, he started to run to the direction of the three Rainbow Operators. Like a crazed monster, making a beeline towards its prey. The beeping in his hand became more frantic and audible. There was only one possible response.

*Pht!* *Pht!*

Ethan was the first to act, delivering two trigger pulls from his suppressed marksman rifle. The full metal jacket rounds made their way to the bomber's face, shattering his suit's visor and ballistics mask. Flesh was ripped and mangled, as blood sprayed from the points of impact. The enemy jerked his head back and fell to the floor, one more corpse to be added for the day's body count.

"Target down."

"W-what… What the hell was he thinking!?", Emma stammered.

There was genuine shock in her voice, appalled at the senseless waste of life. But neither of her comrades dared answer her question. The White Masks' refusal to surrender was nothing new.

"Valkyrie, tango neutralized at the basement."

"Check, Alpha-Three."

With one less enemy to worry about, the Operators resumed the search for survivors. They scanned every corner of the sprawling basement area as methodically as they could, all the while avoiding where the flames were the stronger. With sweat starting to drench his body, Ethan glanced at his suit's thermometer and pressure gauge. Judging by the readings, he surmised that he was getting quite close to the epicenter of the blast. Conventional wisdom told him that there was no way anyone could still be alive if they were this close to the explosion. The thought lasted in his brain for a good five seconds until he heard a faint mumbling behind some rubble.

"Help… *cough* Help us…", the voice spoke.

"Friendlies! Hey, can you hear us?"

There was a doorway blocked by a pile of debris. It looked like an entire section of the supply room had caved in, obstructing entry. Undeterred by the obstacle, Alpha-Three took out his crowbar and started to pry it loose. His teammates also joined in using their hands, removing bricks, wooden beams, and other pieces. They left their backs exposed, a bad move considering what happened earlier, but there was no time to think about their own safety.

Ethan grunted as he forcibly removed the last piece of rebar blocking the doorway. Then, his heart skipped a beat. On the other side of the doorway were four people, donning gasmasks and blue overalls. Police officers. The bloodstains, battered guns, and the empty shell casings on the ground indicated that they were survivors from one of the FBI's Tac Teams. It was nice to see relatively friendly faces this time, and the thought was very much reciprocated.

"Oh, thank God! Are you the rescue squad?"

"Special response unit.", Miles replied, obfuscating their real identity as per protocol. "Anyone hurt bad? Can you boys walk?"

"I'm fine. Two of my guys have their legs banged up. Keegan's hurt pretty bad too; we can't carry him."

The masked officer pointed to one of their comrades, lying flat on his back. He was unconscious. There was a tourniquet on his left thigh and bandages across his chest where bullet impacts were supposed to be. His friends did a decent job tending to the wounds, but blood continued to spew from them.

"Roger that. We'll improvise. Get your buddies ready to move."

Ever the quick-thinker, Miles set his backpack down and pulled out a single sheet of cream-colored material. It was a UTP-1 armor panel, normally reserved for securing doorways and windows from enemy gunfire. Ethan was about to ask him why he would carry one of his specialized barricades for a rescue mission, but the reason quickly became clear.

"Set him down here."

It was a makeshift stretcher, since a real one would be too large to carry in these cramped quarters. Miles and the other agent dragged Keegan by his armpits and laid him onto the sheet. Ethan then opened his medkit, applying whatever aid he could to the unconscious agent. Meanwhile, Emma quickly set up triage for the rest. It was a challenge treating the wounded survivors amidst the fire and the smoke. But once they were done, Miles signaled everyone to move out. He and another officer carried the unconscious Keegan out of the battered room, clutching the armor panel from either side. The rest of Alpha helped the other beleaguered agents navigate the stairs; each of them grunted in pain for every step they took. Walking with a battered leg or a cracked skull was incredibly excruciating, but they'd rather suffer the agony now than die in this blazing inferno later.

"Alpha-One reporting in. Basement sweep complete, recovered four survivors. Three casualties total: one Cat-Bravo, two Cat-Deltas, over."

"Check all. Relaying to EMTs now.", Meghan replied in hushed tone. "Suggest you get topside, double-time."

There was faint shouting in the radio's background. A man and a woman, likely Treadway and Six. One of them presumably defending why Rainbow defied orders and conducted an impromptu rescue mission. This debate could only end one way. For Alpha Team, it only meant that they needed to work faster.

"Affirmative. What's the twenty on those ambulances?"

"Alpha-One be advised, they are just arriving on the scene now. De-con units are still flying in from Klamath, ETA two-zero mikes."

"Roger. Over and out."

Miles's response was a cue for his teammates to hustle up. But things weren't looking good. Ethan looked at his wristwatch, and he realized that the team had already burned more than two minutes just evacuating the four men they found. There wouldn't be enough time for a second sweep. If only they had one of Emma's little robots still intact, they could have used it to scope out the ruined terrorist stronghold. And had become a dangerous labyrinth thanks to the explosion, as evidenced by the enemy they recently killed. Anyone foolish enough to venture inside would risk getting burned, gassed, or shot to death.

After a short trek from the stairs, the three operators made it out of the Compound, with four wounded FBI agents in tow. They set down Keegan on the grass, as Miles again administered aid to the wounded, unconscious man. His CBRN training told him the best way to treat a casualty in a contaminated environment, but the prognosis wasn't good. Multiple bullet wounds have ruptured the man's suit, undoubtedly filling his lungs with toxic particles from the White Masks' biochemical weapon. To say nothing of the carbon monoxide he had already inhaled and the amount of blood he had already lost. They looked for the ambulances that Meghan told them about earlier. Only faint sirens were there and a few flashing lights, as far as the senses could perceive in this dense, poisonous fog. The casualties would only continue to pile up if help didn't get here in time.

And it would appear that Alpha Team was about to lose one of the survivors, no thanks to the White Masks' callous use of Compound Z. The weapon was simple, yet sinister. Like mustard gas, its more potent cousin, Compound Z would attack the respiratory and lymphatic systems of the body. Within seconds of skin contact, the lungs would swell, the blood vessels would start to erode, and the other organs would begin to bleed. Unless proper medical attention was delivered in under two hours, the victim was assured an undignified death of total organ failure. Assuming that the blood loss nor the collapsed lungs didn't kill him first.

"Fuck! He's about to go into shock…", Miles started to panic as he frantically tried to revive Keegan "…This guy ain't gonna make it if we don't get help soon!"

"It's okay, I'll take it from here."

The unscathed FBI agent quickly rushed to the man's side and offered a hand. The help was more than welcome, for there were other souls for Rainbow to save. Time was of the essence.

"Alpha-One do you read?", the radio buzzed again.

"Lima Charlie, Valk. Send it."

"UAV's picking up more movement at the dorm section, west of main wing, second deck."

It might be another group of the trapped cops.

"Shit… We just got out.", Miles complained. "We'll try and get there through the roof. Meeting hall's a no go."

"Alpha-One, recommend you pull back now. You don't have enough time."

"Negative, we can do this!"

"*sigh* It's your call. Blue Force is about to pull out. Do what you can, but do it fast."

The three Operators exchanged nods. No words were needed to tell each other what to do. After a quick ammo check, Ethan once again recalled the building's blueprints. Since they were headed to the roof, the next destination was the watchtower. No doubt there would have to be careful of their footing, as the fire was getting worse by the second. They knew at the back of their heads that this was a bad idea, but Emma didn't seem to mind. Briefly, she tapped his shoulder and glanced at him with utmost confidence. Again, grey eyes met with green ones, each trying to reassure the other. He was caught off guard, but he nodded in reply. Feigned optimism was a lot better than total despair, it seemed.

Alpha Team returned to the dark entrance from where they made their ingress before. This time, they took the flight of stairs they passed earlier and headed up to the watchtower. They would use the windows to climb out and proceed to the scaffolding near the roof. From there, it would be a quick but careful sprint to reach the other side, in case the roof was about to collapse upon itself. Yet the more Ethan visualized the idea in his head, the less he liked it. He quickly rationalized it was either that or lose one more chance of saving another life or nailing another bad guy. He chose the former.

"Aww hell no."

Miles remarked in utter disbelief, mirroring the thoughts of his two teammates. The damage was worse than they thought. There wasn't any rooftop for them to hop over to. Only a barely-stable scaffolding that connected what was left of the roof together. And as if that wasn't enough, the fires were starting to eat away at its foundations. Their sole remaining point of entry could collapse at any given minute. Improvisation was in order. With all due haste, three pairs of eyes started to look around, searching for something they could use.

"Here. Gentlemen, I'm gonna need your help."

Emma pointed at a large wooden beam from a broken section of the watchtower. A few meters as wide as it was thick, and also several meters longer. The beam was dangling from its base. But in the eyes of the genius engineer, she saw a makeshift bridge that they could use to cross the burning gap. It seemed sturdy enough to handle the weight of one man. They only needed to tear it lose.

"Okay, one… two… three!"

Three pairs of hands pushed into the pillar, forcing it to crash onto the other side.

"Alright! That did it!", she cheered.

She peered out of another window to inspect the results. It looked like the beam had lodged itself into a mess of roof shingles. It didn't quite fall all the way through, but it did formed their desired crossing albeit at a slightly elevated angle. Neither of the men could vouch for the thing's stability, but the confidence from the only woman in the team told them otherwise.

"Stay here.", she told Ethan. "I'll see if it's safe to cross."

And out of the window she went. Her boots planted firmly into the roof shingles, creating a quick cracking sound and a little bit of panic. But then, she quickly spread her arms out to steady her footing. With a faint whistle from her lips, she slung her H&K417 across her back and started to make her way to the impromptu crossing. It didn't appear to be wobbling too dangerously, at least for the moment.

" _Merde_ , this thing could suddenly give way anytime… I'm gonna take point."

"Sure. Ladies first, right?", Ethan cracked a joke.

"Har har."

It seemed the logical thing to do. She was the engineer. She would know if the wooden beam was strong and sturdy enough to resist falling into the burning pit below. Not only that, she was also lighter than the other two men; less weight meant less chances of a catastrophic structural collapse. Her first few footsteps looked good and it seemed safe for her comrades to follow. The yellow smoke and the massive blaze didn't dampen her courage one bit. It was almost inspiring to follow her lead.

She stopped after a few more steps and glanced to her right. She looked at Ethan in the eye.

 _"Allons_ **-** _y_! Let's go! _"_

"Dammit. You sure about this Em?"

"Just move slow and steady. We can ma- *thwak*"

…

It played like slow motion.

One moment, he was reaching out to grab her hand. The next, it seemed that a sharp gust of wind had suddenly whizzed past the two of them. There was the sickening sound of flesh and metal, grinded together. Then, a gasp of air from her mouth as her body jerked back, violently. There was a faint spray of red splattering her grey MOPP suit and her partner's. And then, she fell right back into the window.

*thud*

Ethan was just in the right position to catch her. But it wasn't a gentle fall. Her lithe figure collapsed into his arms like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut. It forced him off his balance and flat on his back. It took a few milliseconds for him to register what had just happened. Her body was limp.

 _No._

He gently pushed her aside. His eyes looked into the tinted lenses of her gas mask. But there was no pair of green orbs looking back. Only eyelids, closed firmly.

 _No. No. Nonononono…_

Her grey suit had a rather large smear of bright crimson. Most of it was in her torso, just above the breast, surrounded by reddish drops. The light from the flames outside gave the stains a weird, ichor-like shine.

Not a single gunshot was heard.

"Shit! TAKE COVER!", Miles shouted.

The man huddled behind the wall and opened fire with his UMP, bullets hurtling into the unknown. Ethan, however, didn't follow suit. He was slack jawed at what happened. Emma was walking just a while. She was balancing on the beam, assessing the best method to cross it without falling to her death _…_ Now, nothing. No words from her mouth, nor a twitch from her body. There was only the red stain on her chest, which started to grow larger.

It took effort for him to muster the courage to do what needed to be done. Ethan crawled to the Emma's body, undeterred by the roaring submachine gun fire from his comrade, and inspected the young woman's chest wound. His Nomex gloves tore through layer upon layer of protective material, making a small hole until he reached the source of the oozing blood. It was a bullet impact just under the right clavicle, barely covered by chest rig's ceramic trauma plate. The projectile had grazed the thick sheet of metal, but found enough force to ricochet upwards and tear into her flesh. Her skin was left marred with a deep hole, from which her life essence started to drain.

All sorts of emotions came to Ethan's mind. Shock, disbelief, and a bubbling anguish. He ignored them to remember his medical training. He recalled the standard procedures for closing gunshot injuries and mending damage from penetrating trauma. And so, he opened his medical kit again and applied dressing on the wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. He knew it wouldn't do much to help her. Then, he closed the wound and applied pressure on it. He prayed for a miracle without uttering a word.

The answer was swift.

"E…*cough*… wh-…"

She was still alive. Her breaths were wheezing and pained, but they were more than enough to shine a ray of hope to the sniper's face.

"…Eth- …Ethan?"

He smiled and cheered silently for a second, only for the team leader's gunfire brought him back to reality.

"Get down, man! Get down!"

Miles ducked under the window at the last second, as another bullet whizzed past his head. But it was a single shot, not a succession, prompting Ethan to believe that their unknown assailant was using a semi-automatic weapon. Or perhaps even a bolt-action one. That meant that they had fractions of a second to move between the shots. To launch a counter-attack or to make a tactical withdrawal. He weighed the variables very carefully. Short on time, pinned down by enemy fire, and saddled with yet another casualty. Ethan made up his made relatively quickly. He gave the other man a stern look, to which he immediately got the message. The first order of business was to use the radio.

"Valkyrie, we have enemy contact.", he spoke calmly. "Operator down. I say again: Operator down."

"What!?"

"We're taking direct fire south of our position, second floor northwest tower… Alpha-Two's been hit. She's still alive, but we need to get her out."

"No… Oh God…"

There was a tone of genuine shock and dread in Meghan's voice. A bit of unprofessionalism on her part, but it was understandable. Ethan looked at his other teammate again. They knew they had no other choice.

"We're aborting the mission.", he radioed. "Alpha's doubling back to the extraction point now."

"Goddammit… Ch… Check that."

A tactical withdrawal. It left behind a bad taste in his mouth, seeing that they were just a few steps away from accomplishing their objective. They did the best they could for today. The thought wasn't as comforting as it sounded.

 _I got you, girl. Hang in there_ …

The next part was to cover their retreat. Ethan took Emma's rifle and wrapped its sling across his back. Then, he scooped up her motionless body, placing one arm under her legs and the other supporting her back. The man grunted at all the added weight he had on his person, but he disregarded any discomfort he felt. He needed to get her out of the danger zone as soon as possible. A few moments later, he nodded to Miles who promptly ceased firing his weapon and pulled out another UTP-1 armor panel out of his pack. Not as a stretcher this time. They needed to close off the window so that the unknown shooter wouldn't take potshots at them as they departed. And so, Alpha-One laid the sheet onto the window frame as wide as he could, before he fasted it into place…

*thwak*

…But he wasn't fast enough.

"ARRGH! SHIT!"

There was another snapping sound. Then, flesh and bone mashed together. When Ethan turned around, he saw his comrade bent over and clutching his right hand. Blood was trickling. He was wincing in pain. The enemy was able to let off one last bullet before the barricade was completely deployed.

"Miles? MILES!"

…

* * *

…

 _"To all units in this frequency. Code Black is in effect_ … _Repeat: Code Black is in effect_ … _Emergency containment perimeter is established zero-point-five klicks from the AO_ … _Priority medevac is reserved for all Category-Alpha and Bravo casualties_ … _Await further updates_ …"

…

This time, nobody ignored the FBI dispatcher. Amidst the unbroken yellow haze from the chemical weapon, the senses were quick to recognize the abundance of activity. The sights of ambulances and rescue vehicles pouring into the Compound. The sounds of news choppers circling from the distance. Police officers and paramedics, who donned their respective hazmat suits, were running all over the place. Ethan kept his eyes peeled for any kind soul who would offer to help the Frenchwoman in his arms. But instead, everyone was pre-occupied. Bodies were littered everywhere. And the battle might not yet be over.

"Hey, give us a hand here!"

The mask muffled his voice. Removing it, unfortunately, would've been a death sentence because of the toxic smoke.

Emma was awake and slightly conscious, but she was in pain. She clutched the hole in her chest with a tight grip, but blood continued to ooze between her fingers. The dressing that her partner made had failed. He cursed in his head. He criticized himself for the careless. He should've examined the bullet penetration more carefully. But time was not on his side. The fire threatened to engulf them all. Worse, the enemy shooter had their location zeroed in. A haphazard first aid was his best attempt to save a life, but all it did was a vain effort to stave off death.

Death. The thought resounded in Ethan's head over and over, despite trying his damnedest to shut it away. There was far too many dead and wounded to sort out. Emmanuelle Pichon needed immediate medical attention. Miles Campbell had a bullet wound into his right hand. Dangerous levels of Compound Z have left their MOPP suits viciously contaminated, but the young Frenchwoman had it the worst. The toxins might have already entered her bloodstream, just like with that FBI agent, Keegan, whom they saved in the basement earlier. Looking back at it now, Alpha Team might have failed to recognize yet another portent. A man succumbing to the gas, and now one of Rainbow's was about to suffer the same fate.

"Valkyrie, this is Alpha-Three. Where the fuck is that medevac!?"

"Treadway has chopped off a helo from Klamath. They'll be there in five!"

"For fuck's sake, Twitch will be dead in two minutes!"

"J-Just keep moving, Ace.", Meghan replied, her voice slightly breaking. "You need to reach the containment zone."

"Son of a bitch!"

"Forget it man!", Miles muttered while clutching his hand. "Let's just go! Go!"

That was only several hundred meters away. But it might as well be in the next city, with the whole lot of nothing they've been getting around here. CBRN protocols already took precedence in this situation. De-contamination was the main priority, and it didn't matter if the heavy casualties were putting a strain in all available resources. The FBI was still doing damage control. JSOC was nowhere to be found. And Homeland Security was doing a piss-poor job micromanaging the whole thing.

"Eth… Ethan…"

Emma's voice was almost a whisper. Like she was slipping away.

"No, don't talk! We're getting you out of this!"

And his words gave her no comfort. Why would they? The foreboding failure had finally come to pass. Team Rainbow should've known that conducting a hasty rescue mission was a terrible idea. But that was not all. This was Mohandes' doing. If only Ethan had succeeded in bringing him back home all those months ago, then none of this would've happened. He wasn't strong enough and now the world was paying for it dearly. Gabe had been killed, Compound Z fell into the White Masks' sinister hands, Bartlett University was gassed… and another life was about to be taken, right at his fingertips.

He carried on, even as the emotions started to swell. For the last time, he looked around for any soul willing to lend them a hand. There was none. No stretcher-bearer was coming to their rescue, no medevac was going to arrive soon enough. The radio was not helping either, so he did the only thing he could. He shouted again, even if his gasmask muffled his voice.

"PLEASE! WE NEED HELP!"

Finally, there were people who heard his plea. A medical technician with a white jumpsuit and respirator ran to his direction, tailed by three more people clutching duffel bags of life-saving equipment.

"Sir? Sir! What do you need?"

It was a woman. Her voice matched the face in the respirator's plexiglass.

"Here, take her! She's been shot!"

Ethan laid his comrade down on the grass as the technician examined the bullet wound. She motioned to her colleagues to hurry up, then pulled out another medkit to administer aid. She reapplied the dressing on Emma's chest, while the other technicians began performing specific functions. One of them decided to take a look at Miles' wounded hand. It was a lot worse than he thought.

"Don't worry, sir. Your friend is stable for now. We need to get her to a hospital ASAP."

"Thank God. Do you have a helo we can-"

Ethan was stopped dead in his tracks. The female technician was staring back at him, rather closely. As if she recognized his voice. That was when it hit him. Her whole face was clear as day from the respirator. She looked familiar. Fair skin, crystal blue eyes, small tresses of red hair. There was a gash on her right temple, a scar caused by blunt trauma. Even her accent was suspect. Upper Mid-West. He had spoken with her two days ago, over the phone.

"…Emily?"

"E…than?"

The ex-Delta Force sniper, face-to-face with his former CIA handler. They stood there for a couple of seconds, stunned at each other's presence. To their knowledge, one was simply a retired soldier-turned-government employee. The other was a desk jockey, demoted from her previous position.

"What the fuck are you doing here?", he asked her.

"Huh. You think Langley's gonna stand down for this one?", she replied. "We had to know if your intel checked out. We've been watching the whole thing, until the shooting started…"

Then, she took a few steps to him.

"What the hell…? Is this… Is this the 'new job' you told me about?"

Her eyebrows curled into a frown. That was never a good sign. Ethan needed to change the conversation before she started pressing him. She had a way of persuading others to spill the beans. She couldn't know that he was now working with an international counter-terror unit.

"I ain't got time to explain. Please, just help my partner here."

"I will, but first you got to tell me exactly what's going on."

"I… I can't."

"What do you mean 'you can't'?! Who the hell are you working for anyway? DOD? NATO? Lying to a federal agent is a capital offense you know!"

"PLEASE! Not now!"

They didn't realize that they were raising their voices, turning a few heads. Emily took the hint and piped down, but she made sure to give Ethan one last scowl. Then, she turned her back on him and raised her hand. It was a signal to one of the choppers hovering in the distance. To the surprise of one man, it was a news chopper. All this time, the red-haired lady had been with them, watching the carnage unfold. It was yet another trick from the Central Intelligence Agency's repertoire: going incognito as a civilian. The rotor blades grew louder and louder.

"You've got a lot of explaining to do, Ace."

He turned away. He could feel the distance starting to grow between them.

"Yeah… Actually, we both do…"

"Oh, excuse me. The fuck did I do wrong?", she asked harshly.

"…I thought the Special Activities Division kicked you out.", Ethan replied. "Since when did they bring _you_ back?"

…

* * *

…

The M40 sniper rifle. Fourteen pounds, forty-four inches long, max effective range at about 850 yards. A solid and reliable weapons platform that found many fans in the Marine Corps. Soldiers and police officers all over the country use a similar version, albeit a civilian one, but an untrained eye wouldn't be able to spot any differences. This rifle was easily confused with the other bolt-action weapons preferred by SWAT guys all over the world. The minutiae were completely negligible, except for those who know their stuff very, very well.

As such, it wouldn't be odd to see this accurized, military-grade firearm in the hands of a random cop, wearing blue overalls, a tactical vest, and a gas mask like so many others in this place. He was walking alone, but that was to be expected from police sharpshooters. He didn't mingle with anyone either. He simply shouldered his weapon and strode along the concrete road. Behind him, the fire and toxic smoke from the ruined building continued to bellow, but he paid it no attention. As other cops and paramedics scurried to do their jobs in this scene of chaos, the lone sniper made his way to the collection of tents up ahead. The dispatcher said that the containment perimeter was half a kilometer away from the battle zone. It would make sense for the SWAT vehicles to be gathered there as well.

He just needed to get to the furthest vehicle in the queue. An MRAP of the Oregon State PD, equipped with a self-contained decontamination unit. His clothes were all soiled and mucky, from both the fires and the poisonous smoke that was unleashed inside the Compound. Since virtually everyone else were in the same predicament, nobody batted an eye when he boarded the armored vehicle all by himself. There were a couple of men waiting for him, all wearing hazard suits of their own. He nodded at them and stepped right into a cramped capsule, but not before he placed the M40 rifle into one of the gun racks.

Only then did the capsule closed, bathing his body with a strong spray of water and decontaminants. The temperature did little to ease the pain in his limbs, but he didn't complain. He was just itching to get this phase of the operation over with. It was already a difficult enough job to slip away from the fighting, don the fake police uniform, move to a safe distance, and press the detonator. Luckily, the next steps were far more simple. Remove the suit and the gas mask, put them all in a box for immediate disposal. Then inject himself with the correct antitoxin just in case some of the Compound Z had permeated into his system. His M40 would go to a separate container for a more thorough cleaning at a latter time.

The last bit was nothing more than stupid sentimentality. Caleb would be the first to admit to that. But he had been through so much with that rifle. He would never let it go, as long as he could help it.

*Ring! Ring! Ring!*

"Sir…", a man handed him a cellphone. "…It's Adam."

Caleb replied with a stoic glare, then reviewed the Caller ID. As expected, the numbers pointed to the satellite phone that they provided to the Engineer a few days ago. The guy had been trying to get in touch with Redmond for a while now. He must have been getting paranoid over there to keep pestering people like this. As he should be.

"*sigh* What is it?"

"About fucking time, Caleb. What happened to the phone? You know I can't do my end of the deal until I hear something from you!"

"The Alamo's gone. All of Leonard's crew are dead, just as the Bossman wanted."

"Hmph. Took you long enough… What about Rainbow?"

"Yeah, they were here. I probably shot two of them… I've also taken care of the intel, if that's what you're about to ask next…"

Despite everything that went wrong, the mission was a success. The White Masks' 'headquarters' was torched to the ground, the 'evil terrorists' put up a good fight, and the Compound Z was unleashed. This show of force was exactly that: a show. And once the fires have died and the dust have settled, those fools at Rainbow would be forced into a specific course of action, now that they had _their own_ casualties to sort out. Maybe even decide to take their eyes away from the real prize…

That was the biggest problem of the 'good guys'. Everything they did and would ever do was predictable. So short-sighted. Always reactionary. They were presented a target here in Redmond and they made a gangway to take it out. All in the name of avenging those people who died in Bartlett, the very same people they all failed to save. Fast forward to today, they were given a false distress signal, and they marched into the inferno completely under-equipped. In the blind and not knowing the kind of danger that was about to befall them. So rather than accomplishing their objective, the elite counter-terrorism unit would be going home with a lot of new wounds to lick.

"…Now it's your turn."

"Yeah, yeah. It's done.", the Engineer replied. "Tertiary and secondary targets have been identified. The packages are en route; they'll arrive in a couple days or three."

"That's too long."

"Hey, the US military isn't as efficient as it used to be. You can thank the President for that."

Caleb ignored the small talk and closed his eyes, visualizing the next steps of the plan.

Freedom Day. D-Day. Regardless of how the rest of the men would want to call it, the attack that they've been planning all these years was about to begin. All eyes would be in that Summit in Manhattan. Tens of thousands would attend, either in person or in spirit. For sure, the media and the Internet would connect everyone. Bartlett University had nudged the public into a specific mindset, and Freedom Day would provide the final push. The wheels, at long last, were in motion.

There was just one more problem: the loose ends. The person who killed Danny Goh in Hong Kong was still an unknown quantity. The late Triad boss was one of the key contributors to the entire operation. Granted, the Bossman had plans to dispose of him anyway, but his death was a lot earlier than anticipated. Had he lived, the escape plan would have been much more streamlined. Taking him out had placed a dent in the supply network too. Whoever this person who ordered the killing was likely to be intimately involved in the whole thing. Perhaps the same person who nudged Leonard Fausse into doing that robbery in Los Angeles…

And of course, there's the issue of the Engineer. Adam Kipper. His commitment to the cause had always been questionable. And speak of the devil.

"When will I get the rest of my cut?", he blurted over the phone.

"You've got to be fucking ki- …*sigh* This again? You'll get it after the job's done."

"No, no, no. I'm _renegotiating_ our deal. You know how hard it is to work up here?"

"You're still alive. If it were up to me, we would've left you for the CIA. It was a mistake to rescue you in the first place."

"Oh, boo-fucking-hoo. You're jealous I have someone looking out for me?"

"Heh. Really now?"

Caleb thought of one thing that could silence the prick. He fumbled with his cellphone and sifted through one of photos he had taken not too long ago. A small grin formed when he found the one he was looking for. A button press here and there, and the photo was sent to cyberspace, right to the fingertips of the Engineer. Thousands of miles away he might be, the Internet made the distance completely irrelevant. And knowing him, his laptop would be in his person at this time of day.

"…I sent something to your email."

The man on the phone paused for a few seconds, before he delivered his exasperated response.

"W-What the fuck!?"

It was an image of a lithe figure, wearing a white jumpsuit and a respirator. A woman with blue eyes and red hair. A familiar face. Once again, she posed as someone else to blend in, gain other people's trust. Today she was a medic, carrying another person into a stretcher. Not long ago, she was a Case Officer for the Central Intelligence Agency. A Border Control, somewhere in the Middle East.

"Yeah. Jacobsen was just here. You know what that means, do you Adam?"

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** Poor Twitch. Rest assured I did not enjoy seeing (or in my case, writing) her to go down like that; she's one of my favorite Attackers. Anyway, as an FYI there are only about five more chapters to go before I wrap this series up. The next one will feature at least one Chimera Operator, please stay tuned! :)


	14. Chapter 13 - The Last Straw

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen - "The Last Straw"**

* * *

Brooke Army Medical Center (BAMC), Fort Sam Houston, Texas  
Containment Ward

Twelve hours after the Redmond Siege

…

It was the dead of night. The faint stench of chemicals was still strong, even from the hallway. Antiseptics, bleach, iodoform… hospitals smelled the same everywhere.

"…I'm confident her body will not reject the nanites.", the female doctor spoke, speaking in a strange accent. "But just in case, I changed the hyaluronidase dosage a little above normal levels. Improves the nanite absorption that way."

"Sounds risky. Do you have any room for error?", Seamus Cowden asked.

"Ten percent, more or less. It's not negligible, I know, but it is better odds than what the doctor said earlier."

"Heh. At least you're honest..."

A whole lot of medical gibberish. Ethan looked on from the bench he was sitting. He wanted to ask the two people with him about what they were yammering on, but he was too fatigued to even lift a finger. 'Fatigued' might be too generous of a word, though. Discounting what happened in Redmond, he had to endure a 30-minute flight to Kingsley Field in Klamath. Then go through processing, then another medical tent, then board a C-130 with his wounded comrades for another lengthy trip to San Antonio. Three hours, give or take. Upon arriving at Brooke Army Medical, he was so drained in body and mind that he could almost collapse on the lobby floor at will. He barely had enough time to process the déjà vu as well; it only had been a few weeks since he himself was discharged from this very hospital, after his own brush with death.

Somewhere in his mind, there was a quip about the kind of bad luck that he seemed to attract. He was too worked up by the reality of it all. Rainbow just had its second battle go wrong on his watch, leaving a lot of good cops hurt or worse, including two people he knew. Returning to BAMC was both poignant and ironic. Only this time he was the visitor, looking at a pane of glass where another patient lay unconscious. A young woman strapped to a white bed, tubes sticking out of her arms and nose. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was pale. Her brown hair was all ruffled. Her life was hanging in the balance.

"...What about the gunshot wound?", the Scotsman asked the doctor.

"I'm sorry, but... The bullet fragments have caused a lot of bone damage. Too much for the nanites to handle on their own... It's a miracle she's even alive."

Ethan was thankful that Rainbow was quick to respond. Otherwise he would not have been able to save Emmanuelle Pichon before the Grim Reaper fetched her. Miles Campbell was relatively fine, but that was hardly a worthy consolation considering their other friend's current state. With a bullet to the chest and a bloodstream contaminated by deadly toxins, she was barely hanging on. Her survival would entirely depend on experimental tech that was as likely to kill her as it could save her. It involved tiny robots scrubbing her organs and tissues clean, but would unfortunately render her comatose for a while. The gunshot was a different story. A treatment this delicate warranted close supervision, which was why Seamus and the other woman came to this hospital with all haste.

The latter was an unfamiliar face, though. The short-haired lady was clad in a lavender sweater and a sensible pair of jeans, with a folded medical coat resting in her right forearm. Ethan, in his exhausted mind, didn't bother to question the presence of a stranger whereas good sense would have prevailed otherwise. Whoever this doctor was, she must have gone through a lot of trouble flying to Texas at such short notice.

"Don't worry, Mr. Cowden. I matched the treatment with Ms. Pichon's medical profile. Assuming it's up to date."

"It is. I checked it myself."

"I'll take your word for it, then. I don't want tonight to be a wasted trip."

"I appreciate you getting here so fast.", Seamus continued speaking with the doctor. "You're supposed to be flying back home tonight, I hear."

"You can thank your pilot for that; he's a miracle worker. Brooke Army Medical was a few of hours away from the hotel I was staying. If I arrived much later… well…"

Their conversation was cordial and positive, despite the situation. Seamus would need every ounce of optimism he could get to keep himself from worrying sick over one of his subordinates. Ethan envied him. The tall, bulky man still found the resolve to hope for a miracle, whereas the American was wearied by the day's toll. It was already past midnight; the dreadful day that claimed 20 law enforcement agents had come and gone. The lady doctor held back a yawn, then went back to grab her suitcase from one of the benches. She took great care to give Ethan the space he needed, who was slouched in his seat with a dirty marksman rifle resting beside him. They made no eye contact. Instead, she went back to the towering Scotsman's side.

"...By the way, how's Sasha?", she asked.

"The Lord? Oh, aye. That skunner is still kicking. He drank some of the lads under the table one time, so you can quit worryin' about his liver."

"Hahaha! That does sound like him..."

Ethan wasn't keen on eavesdropping on the conversation anymore. But the name 'Sasha' registered in his brain. This woman was no stranger. All evidence pointed to a 'yes', judging from how Seamus accepted the woman's offer of a handshake.

"...Well, I still have a plane to catch, Mr. Cowden. If you have any questions, you contact me on the same channel. Talk to no one else."

"Of course. Thank you again, Dr. Melnikova."

"Oh please, no need for formalities…", she smiled sheepishly. "…It's Valeria. Lera, if you like."

"Alright, Lera. Safe travels."

With one last friendly smile, the doctor turned around and left, disappearing into a set of automated doors. Seamus took a faint sigh and walked towards Ethan to join him in the benches. Both of them needed to gather their thoughts, process everything that happened today. Gloomy silence prevailed outside of Emma's room, until the American broke the ice again.

"That Russian chick... You know her?"

" _Belarussian_. Combat medic and immunologist for the FSB's Vympel Unit. She used to serve with Max and Alex."

"Spetsnaz? What the hell is she doing here?"

"A speaking engagement at some school in Houston this week... Bloody coincidence, that one. Six's been meaning to get her to head-up our CBRN Unit for some time now..."

CBRN. A dedicated chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear response force for Team Rainbow. A novel idea that would've done wonders to prevent today's bloodbath in Oregon. The other man pretended to care.

"Wow. The boss lady sure likes overthinking stuff, huh?"

Seamus chuckled briefly, as if to play along with Ethan's pathetic attempt at humor. The jab was nothing to laugh at when it was delivered in such a weary tone.

Or maybe because there was nary a smile on his lips. As much as he wanted to take his mind off the gloom, he could not help but keep staring at the windowpane again, looking at his partner's motionless face. She slumbered in peace, a welcome change from the agony she endured for hours. Inside her body, the nanomachines were working double-time to mend the toxic damage done to her lungs. No doubt some weird-ass science was in play at the moment to save her life, but the specifics were irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was Emma's survival, even if the possibility seemed remote.

Ethan lowered his head and looked away. He felt useless. He should've volunteered to walk on that beam, expose himself to that fucking shooter and take the bullet. He would've been dead or worse, but at least _she_ would be fine. She would have been the better trade. A brave prodigy with a good heart, versus a wetworks guy whose only talent was killing. A veteran member of an elite unit, versus the new recruit who only survived because of luck. Things would have been different if only he had done his job better. If only he was more alert and better equipped. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked the CIA's help in the first place, and saved dozens of good men along the way. He combed over so many crossroads in his memory, thinking where he should have taken a different option to prevent this tragedy.

"How are you holdin' up, Ace?", Seamus asked him.

"I'll feel better once we get back to Bragg, sir...", he softly replied. "...I think you should ask Miles the same. Where is he anyway?"

One would say that he was also 'lucky' since he only got hit in the hand. But that was his shooting hand...

"In the helipad with Jäger. He said the painkillers were making him fuzzy."

"And the rest of the gang?"

"Business as usual, mostly. Everyone's holding on at the base... Meg's burying herself in paperwork, but I know she's not taking any of this well…"

And lastly, the intel officer who watched the whole tragedy unfold. Of course she wouldn't take the aftermath in a good way. She warned Ethan and the others that attempting a rescue in the danger zone was a bad idea. But against sound logic, she went with her gut. And as a result, one of her friends almost paid the ultimate price today. Just for a chance to save a few good men from death. Just for a chance to stop the bad guys once and for all.

"...Em's a tough little lass. She'll live through this, don't you worry."

"Yeah. A nine-in-ten chance of survival... That one's on me."

"Bloody hell, could you stop it with the fucking self-pity, mate? What's done is done. Things went to shite, but you got your team back alive. That's what matters."

And a dose of tough love was called for.

"Hehehe. Whatever you say."

Ethan laughed weakly, indulging in the words of support to convince himself that he did the right thing. That doing everything by the book yielded a good result this time. The fantasy didn't last long in his head.

He took the Scotsman's advice into consideration, then looked at the wristwatch. Five minutes have already past, five minutes into the dawn of a new day. The boys in England should be finished with breakfast and PT right about now. They should be getting the rest of the news soon. Hopefully, they could take it with strong hearts and an even stronger resolve. As for Ethan, he continued to ignore his body's plea for him to rest. He had been awake for more than 24 hours and he could feel already feel the dizziness creeping in. But he was needed elsewhere. With a weary sigh, he stood up from his seat, grunting as the pain in his limbs returned. He tried his best to soldier up and walk normally instead of a slight limp. He left his rifle behind at the bench, knowing that Seamus would look after it for him.

"I need to get some air.", he mumbled.

"Don't wander too far, yeah? Jäger's gonna dust-off once the bird's fueled up."

He paid no heed to the orders, instead he went through the same automated doors as the lady doctor from earlier. At that point, it was only a short walk to the elevator and a button press to the ground floor. Dull elevator music hummed behind his ear, like a vain attempt to cheer him up. Then, it was a quick stroll towards the lobby that barely had any visitors at this hour. The number of people that Ethan walked past by could be counted in one hand, mostly nurses and medical techs. It was funny to think that he was back at this exact spot, the same place from where he witnessed the attack on Bartlett University as it unfolded. He never thought he'd be returning to it as a slightly different man, with a slightly different job description to his name.

There was another woman in the lobby. Emily Jacobsen, his old boss. Once again, she was in a zipped-up brown jacket and a pair of jeans. Her auburn hair was tied into a bun, with a bang combed to the right side of her face. A visitor's pass was pinned into his chest. She looked almost exactly the same as a few weeks ago, when she parted ways with him. The same wall-mounted television was occupying her attention yet again, another instance of déjà vu. The screen showed a late night news segment, interspersed with scenes from the battle at Redmond, Oregon. They were disheartening to watch, but the man was too tired to care about any of it.

"Emily."

He called out in a weak voice. She, in turn, spun her head to him, cutting her thoughts short. She had the same weary eyes as he did. But hers were as blue as the ocean. She found the strength to smile. She was a pleasant sight.

"…How's your friend, Ethan?"

"I dunno… The docs are still working on her, but she's... she's alive. Thanks to you."

"Oh, thank God. That's good to hear."

Another faint grin from the CIA agent. They stared into each other for a few seconds, waiting for the next words to come to mind. Their chance meeting in the battlezone didn't exactly have a pleasant ending, but at least it saved a life in the process. Just as the man opened his mouth, the woman immediately beat him to the punch.

"I'm… sorry about what I said in Redmond… I didn't mean to accuse you of…", she trailed off. "…I was surprised to see you there, you know? With a gun and a hazard suit…"

"It's what I do best, Agent Jacobsen…"

He took a few more steps forward, inching to narrow the distance between them. The smile he gave her was weak, but genuine.

"…I think I definitely owe you that dinner now, huh?"

"Bet your ass, you do.", she bumped a fist into his chest. "There's this French place in Arlington. Has the best soufflé in the world... Hope you can afford it."

"Shit, I haven't even gotten my signing bonus yet."

The two of them laughed at the lame joke. For a moment, they were back to their jovial selves. As if the last few hours of fighting and dying were nothing more than a bad dream. There was no escaping reality. Leaving aside the friction that happened between them, they had a lot of explaining to do for each other. He was working for an international counter-terror force, and she was still hellbent in uncovering the truth behind this mystery unit. Ethan could see it in the woman's gaze. Her smile was slowly becoming a narrow line, that of unwanted distrust.

"Can you play ball now?", she asked. "No crap-talk this time. Strictly business."

"Seriously? We're doing this again?"

"Yeah. I'll keep pressing until I get a straight answer from you."

"I'm not gonna tell you who I'm working for, Emily. I'm sorry. It's called 'compartmentalization'."

He tried using her own words against her. It didn't work.

"Hmph. Figures.", she shook her head.

The narrow line on her lips then turned into a slant, that of unexpected disappointment. If only she knew the gravity of what she was asking of him. Ethan would gladly tell her the truth about his new job if the circumstances were only different. And as much as he would like to indulge his old employer, the CIA would just have to get used to the fact that a top-secret group was the one trading shots with the White Masks recently. Not one of their own. Accountability must take a backseat first until every last one of those masked murderers have been killed or put to justice. And to do that, Team Rainbow must remain a secret. This group employed some of the best counter-terror operatives in the world, whose identities would fetch a high price for any knowledge broker. Ergo the CIA, and therefore Agent Jacobsen. True to form, the woman made it clear in her face that she was not going to give up on her prospective insider. The CIA would never leave loose ends to chance.

She pulled out something from her bag. A large red folder filled with papers, which she handed to her former colleague. Ethan didn't want to think, so he accepted the folder without question. He was quickly stunned at what he saw: maps, recon photos, floorplans, and hand-written notes. They were crumpled, dirtied, and smelled of ash.

"What are these?"

"FBI found 'em in the office wing at the Compound.", Emily replied succinctly. "Don't worry, they're already decontaminated."

They were fresh from today's battle. Ethan blinked twice, to see if he got that right. This was intel, obtained from the White Masks' headquarters in Redmond, probably after the chaos of the siege. The gesture was puzzling. This was no doubt a bargaining chip, but that fact quickly became irrelevant. The papers pointed at something... sinister.

If one could look at them all like jigsaw puzzle, it was clear as day that they formed a battle plan, like something that would come from a war room. A plan to smuggle… 'packages' into a convention center in Manhattan. Rows upon rows of blank-inked letters illustrated the process of bypassing electronic scanners and metal detectors. Anticipating where security checkpoints and patrols would be deployed. Timelines, camera footages, the works. The folder also contained blueprints scribbled with arrows and notes, in what looked like a coordinated maneuver from multiple angles. They indicated teams of men who would enter which room and carry which item at a specified time. The inventory of personnel and material was written in painstaking detail.

And there was a word that Ethan kept seeing in almost every page. Compound Z. The chemical weapon that was used in Bartlett and Redmond. The same poison he failed to retrieve from the infamous Engineer. The same weapon that nearly killed Emma. But this time, the red folder spelled out just how much of the damn stuff would be needed. How a small group of men could fit a canister of the stuff into a suitcase. How they should cut off exit points to maximize damage. How many canisters they could bring into the city before the day of the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit. They called it 'D-Day'.

"These are plans... for an attack.", Ethan muttered.

"For Freedom Day.", Emily nodded. At that point, her persona as Case Officer was front and center. "I had Special Activities look into them when we stopped by Klamath..."

"And?"

"Well, we're convinced this is linked to our own investigations in Korea and Hong Kong recently..."

"Hong Kong? Korea? What the hell are you talking about?"

"That's not important. All you and your friends need to know is that we all have a role to play next week. We need to work together if we want to stop these maniacs once and for all…"

Emily then crossed her arms. Firm in her words and manners, she took a few steps towards Ethan to claim his space. He was a bit intimidated by the gesture. It was clear that she wanted to get his full attention. Perhaps his cooperation as well.

"…This shit is much, much larger than we thought. Get me in touch with your boss so that I can lay down a better plan of action."

"I… I don't have the clearance for that.", he tried to play dumb. "Why are you still pushing for this anyway?"

"I'm a patriot, Ethan. I'll do whatever it takes to protect my country. Even if it means working with shady guys like you…."

Her real message was hidden in the words coming out of her mouth. It was bothersome. Ethan could sense there was something else hidden behind her sweet-talk. This spook was working her magic on him, but his addled mind made it hard to resist. Her crystal blue eyes, her serious gaze, and that pleasant voice. Then, she gave him the smuggest smile he'd ever see from her.

"…You're an interesting bunch, you know?"

"How so?"

"That doc with the red hair, Lera Melnikova… We have a file on her. Heh, I didn't realize that you guys were working with the Russians now."

And that line caused the hairs on Ethan's back to rise. He tried his best to play it cool, act like he was not taken aback by her revelation. But Emily seemed to have already discerned his heart, because of this initial reaction. Damn was she good. She had the gall to accuse a close friend of treason and be all cordial about it.

"I don't know what your talking about, lady."

It was incredibly tempting to spill the beans, right then and there.

…

* * *

Office for Special Projects, Arlington, Virginia  
The Pentagon

At the same time.

…

 _What a day._

The thought remained in the brilliant mind of Rainbow Six, even as a lot of other ideas vied for space. Anyone who witnessed the Redmond Siege would feel that way. She had seen the carnage unfold from Meghan's camera feeds, but the true weight of the situation only became clear after the official word got out. Team Rainbow had two casualties, one of whom was critically injured. Six had to pull favors from the DOD and the Army to allow her people into one of the country's most advanced military hospitals. Just to save one life. Or, to use Treadway's less flattering terms, to save 'her own black ass'.

The request was granted, sure, but the damage was already done. She was summoned by the Joint Chiefs of Staff a little more than an hour after the battle had ended.

"Ma'am. Are you alright?"

Six didn't speak a word to her aide. Instead, she kept her eyes looking out of the window, into the skyline of a slumbering city. She had been standing for a few minutes, taking a break from the laptop on her desk, while a news report from the TV played in the background. There was another thing from the meeting that kept her deep in thought.

The Enhanced Domestic Defence Act. EDDA, or 'Edda'. Generals and bureaucrats at DC told her the same damn thing: for weeks, Congress had been debating whether or not they should bring that incredibly draconian law back into the table Bartlett University was a big wake-up call for both the Intelligence Community and the damn politicians, but the Edda still had strong detractors even then. And contrary to what the news channels would blabber on, the American public was just as divided, especially once their personal liberties were threatened. But then Redmond happened. Now, there was no turning back. Edda would result in a massive shakedown and restructure of Uncle Sam's security infrastructure. It would entail more stringent surveillance where personal privacy would be virtually non-existent. It would mean the return of mandatory military service, no doubt a welcome development to lifers everywhere.

It could also mean the end of the Team Rainbow.

"Ma'am?"

"I'm fine, Ryan. Any word on Streicher?"

"Well um... Operative Streicher just called me that he will be flying back to Bragg in a few minutes. Together with Campbell and the rest."

The boss lady nodded in silence. It took her a couple more seconds to voice her other concern.

"Pichon?"

"Dr. Melnikova did everything she could, but she's…uh...", Ryan struggled to find the good words. "… Operative Pichon will be confined at the BAMC indefinitely."

Six fell silent at the report. She visualized another notch being scratched into a wall, signifying another life that got ruined because of her. Twitch was one of the team's brightest and youngest. Headhunted by seven tech companies at the _Sentier_ in Paris, yet she chose the road less traveled to serve her country. She could had been raking in a hundred grand a month, if things had been different. Was it a mistake to let her join into the team? It didn't matter now. The Director remained strong and firm, even if her mind still carried a few doubts. She silently reminded herself that every man and woman who joined the Program were volunteers. They said it themselves during the siege: they knew what they were risking their lives.

"Have Castellano organize a security detail for her.", Rainbow Six ordered. "24/7 surveillance, no visitors allowed."

No doubt that the alphabet agencies have begun snooping around as to why a GIGN operative was recuperating in an American hospital. It would take one hell of a lie to convince them not to delve further.

"You sure about that boss? Treadway said-"

"Just do it."

The glare she gave the young man was both powerful and somber. He got the message rather quickly. After letting himself lose the staring contest, Ryan pulled out his cellphone and made a quick call to the blonde Navy SEAL, no doubt still at the office hundreds of miles away. Meghan insisted on doing her job, even though she had good reason not to. It was therefore only right for the boss to emulate the same drive, despite tonight's dour mood.

"It's done."

"Good… Thank you, Ryan."

With that business taken care of, Six returned to her desk and resumed typing. An after-action report that would accompany the rest of her documents for tomorrow's National Security Briefing, 0800 at the DHS headquarters. Treadway's home turf. The fucking bastard was probably writing his own tirade at Rainbow's Director right about now, arguing that this international taskforce was a massive waste of American taxpayers' money. And the black lady would have no choice but repeat the same message: the threat of the White Masks was far greater than the President wanted to believe. These ruthless killers were still on the loose elsewhere in the world, still pursuing some unknown, twisted agenda. There would be a lot of consequences if America suddenly decided to pull out and leave its friends to hang out and dry.

Six reviewed her reference materials over and over again. It seemed that the Joint Chiefs might already made up their minds as to their actions, post-Redmond. Increase in US military deployment in Canada, France, and a few other places. It looked like a preemptive move to secure the country's foreign interests in light of the recent domestic terrorist attacks. And where soldiers get deployed, the CIA was bound to be there as well, following close behind. The Department of Defense also seemed interested in the recent operations conducted by the Polish government in Korea and Hong Kong. And word on the street was that the Prime Minister herself would be bringing this up in the Summit next week...

...

" _Please stay tuned, as more details come in from our correspondents in Redmond…_

 _…In other news: a rather shocking development on the search for the Aklark. Charlottetown was rattled this morning when the man claiming to have evidence of the CIA's role for the luxury yacht's disappearance was suddenly shot dead in broad daylight…_ "

...

The TV provided a mild distraction from the gritty work. It was comforting to know that even with all the terrible shit that had been going on, the world continued to turn. A macabre example, considering that the news was about a random schmoe getting murdered, but an example nonetheless. The aide, Ryan, noticed it too.

"Well, at least that's something we can do once we're out of the CT business, boss. Search-and-rescue."

"Really? How do you figure Rainbow could do that?", she replied with a question.

"That Japanese cop, Enatsu? I read that his drone was originally designed to clear rubble after an earthquake. And I bet Cowden's still gonna be handy with that hammer of his... Then we have Doctor Kateb, Lieutenant Tsang, and a few others who know medicine..."

Six gave him a faint grin, but it was clear that she wasn't in the mood for jokes. It prompted the young man to try harder, in a pathetic attempt to lift their spirits up.

"Boss… if you don't mind me asking… What did the Joint Chiefs tell you?"

His superior could only respond with a sigh of resignation.

"Redmond was the last straw… Treadway's taking the heat too, but we're definitely gonna be cashing out of the Pentagon soon. If you know what I mean..."

It was the best euphemism she could think of, as the truth was much harder to bear. If there was one thing that Six knew about the Joint Chiefs, they never failed to follow through with their promise. At this rate, Team Rainbow could anticipate a memo within a week. Then they could expect to be 'life support mode' for a month or two, tops. After that would come the EDDA- whose passage was almost certain. The Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in New York would be redundant at this point, and the government would soon be clamoring to sacrifice their people's freedom in exchanged for their continued safety. Worst case scenario, half of the world would actually see this as a good practice from dear 'Ol Uncle Sam and do the same. In effect, creating a world that would not need Team Rainbow for protection.

"...I've already phoned the Brits in Whitehall. They want us as a lifeline."

"Wait, what?", Ryan raised his voice. "The DHS can't do that to us!"

"They just did."

"Ma'am... I don't care what those idiots think, but you made the right call sending Alpha Team in.", he stood up to get his point across. "That man they rescued, Keegan? He'll be going home to his wife and kids thanks to us."

"Yeah. In exchange, Mrs. Pichon will get a phone call about what happened to her daughter... To say nothing of the families of those dead cops..."

The young man's passion disappeared for a second time. Six, of course, didn't mean to sound inconsiderate.

"...I appreciate what you're trying to say, Ryan. But we can't change the fact that this is all... bittersweet. The brass wants someone to blame."

There was no point arguing her truthful words. The aide went back to work in silence, fumbling with his computer and his phone. Get the last few details of tomorrow's briefing into order. It felt like the two of them were in their last legs, as apt a metaphor could be. Six wondered how her subordinates would take the news. It was safe to say that they already knew what was about to happen next. Whether or not this would affect their duties was a question to be answered for another day. It was getting late.

"You can go home now.", the lady boss gave one last order. "Your wife must be worried sick."

Ryan looked at her with incredulous eyes. He didn't expect her to throw him a bone, after all that.

"I... Yes, ma'am..."

"I'll see you tomorrow at 1300, sharp."

Little acts of kindness were all they could do at this point. As the young man went to gather his things, he gave the Director one last glance. He knew the score too.

"How are we gonna break the news to Cowden and Baker?"

"Don't sugarcoat it. After Freedom Day, all of us are going back to Hereford. For good, this time."

…

* * *

Hereford Base, Herefordshire, England  
0600 Hours

Day 14 (One week before Freedom Day)

…

It had been hours since anyone heard something from Oregon. Meghan's last message was that Rainbow's small overwatch team had run into trouble while rescuing friendlies from the terrorist stronghold. A chemical weapon was released, emergency medical techs were dispatched, but the brave fools decided to go in regardless. They rescued a few cops. Later, some government-type American took over the operation at the last minute. Then there was chatter about sporadic shooting, heavy casualties.

Then, there was nothing.

Those who sat the whole thing out were anxious to know what happened. More so because they were thousands of miles away from the action; they would rather be with them than be on the sidelines. It was camaraderie- the kind of kinship that would only exist among close colleagues, regardless of differences and demeanor. Take Dominic Brunsmeier for example, who was hardly the type to make friends. He had seen his fair share of action and hell to become a jaded bastard who wouldn't care less about others. Nonetheless, he developed a soft spot for the boys and girls at his new job, pros who should be more than capable of fending for themselves. He felt a slight pang of dread when he heard what happened in Oregon. While he leaned back at a wall and crossed his arms, his thoughts quickly went to their comrades over there.

Julien Nizan was pacing in and out of the Ops Room. He was tense.

"Relax, _Junge_ (Kiddo).", the scruffy German bid the young man. "I'm sure she is fine."

"Relax? Does the phrase 'run into trouble' mean anything to you?"

"Please. You act like this is the first time Emmanuelle had been into a hot zone…"

Libya and Chad, just to name a few. The little yuppie knew about them too, but he didn't seem to care. His normally optimistic disposition was all but absent this morning. Not even the bandaged leg from last month's PT accident bothered him.

"Besides, the gang had been through worse.", Elias joined in, leaning back on a couch. "Remember Hamburg? We're lucky to walk away from that one!"

The young man glared back at him.

"Oh so, you had to deal with a chemical attack too?"

"Well... uh..."

"Then shut up. You have NO IDEA what happened to her!"

Dominic and Elias piped down, letting the kid indulge in worrying. It seemed that no amount of humor or comfort could take his mind off the anxiety. Not without good reason: Oregon was Rainbow's second 'Code Black' incident after Bartlett. Two mass casualty events in one month that the elite, top-secret counter-terror force had failed to prevent. Last time the Germans checked, not even their esteemed GSG 9 had that kind of bad luck. And so the 41-year-old cop was rightfully concerned. Though unlike Julien, he chose to hide behind a nonchalant face, arms crossed, and leaning against a wall- the universal language of 'acting tough'. Pretending to be unfazed was better than wallowing in distress.

A minute later, the door to the Ops Room opened, and all eyes darted to its direction. There stood Michael Baker in his black shirt and trousers. The SAS veteran had a frown on his face, as per the usual, but he seemed troubled more than ever. The slight scoff he made as he closed the door behind him only proved the point.

"Sir? Sir!", Julien came to him. "Do you have any news? W-What happened in Redmond?"

Baker turned to look with a firm stare, then cleared his throat.

"Castle got dinged in the arm. He'll be fine... but Twitch is... well..."

"Well what? Spill out old man!"

"She's still in the hospital, lad... Shot in the chest. The trauma plate barely stopped the bullet."

"W...What?"

"Docs are still tryin' their best to save her... I'm sorry."

It was as they all feared. Just like that, the Frenchman was left stunned as the blood in his face was drained. His care package failed. His silence spoke volumes, prompting Elias to stand up from his couch and tap the kid's back. Dominic also let his guard down for a moment, closing his eyes at the sound of the bad news.

He'd been there before. He'd seen so many good young people get chewed on and spit out by this cruel world. Julien and Emma: both of whom were woefully optimistic and kindhearted. But they nonetheless represented the spirit of Team Rainbow- sworn to protect the innocent from today's monster. To hear one of the young ones meet such a terrible fate... It was enough to stir the sternest hearts, filling them with anger and a thirst for vengeance. Elias comforted Julien with a gentle pat and a rub on the shoulder. 'Rook' needed to stay strong, a bulwark of protection as his nickname suggested.

"What happens now?", Dominic asked.

"Now? We hope for the best. Pray, if that's yer thing...", Baker answered him. "...The Yanks are sweepin' the country for any tango who buggered off from the fight. We keep our ears peeled 'til we hear from Meghan again."

"We hold the fort while our friends bleed? Doesn't sound right to me."

"I know. But we have to be ready when those fuckin' bastards make a play in Europe... My gut tells me it's only a matter o' time..."

Elias nodded in accord, but the other German sighed and shook his head. It sickened him to witness how this week turned out to be. Regardless, he needed to keep a clear head for the Team's next foray. There would be time to point fingers later.

The Americans' Junteenth celebration, "Freedom Day", was less than seven nights away. For Rainbow, that also meant the stupid Security Summit in New York City, which would be their primary focus. The original plan was that the US-based group led by Seamus and Meghan would assist in organizing the Summit's security efforts. The Europe-gang, meanwhile, would stand by and oversee the security detail of the European delegates while they were still in their home turfs. If New York decided to send out a distress call for whatever reason, then Baker's boys would be ready to answer. That was the purpose of their combat readiness exercises as of late.

All of this because of one crucial fact: the White Masks were still out there. Rainbow's friends in GROM, ROK, and Hong Kong Police have traded bullets with them as recently as a few days ago. And there was sinking feeling that Redmond was not a decisive victory that everyone wanted it to be. The dawning realization was evident in Baker's wrinkly, mustached face. The Team would have to keep their knives sharp and their guns ready, now more than ever. It would mean more training exercises and weapons tests, to maintain a greater level of operational readiness. More time to invest in drilling the new recruits to expand the Team's already-thin numbers. More opportunities to whip everyone into shape and prevent the tragedy in Redmond from befalling them as well.

"...Let's keep this mess behind us while it sorts itself out, Brunsmeier. Understand?"

"Sure, old man. But what about Cohen and the others?"

"Markie's gonna break the news to those lot later...", Baker sighed. "…We'll follow today's schedule like we always do. No sad ceremonies."

"Right."

"Was there anythin' else?"

"The briefing with the DGGN will push through today..."

"Hmph. Damn French.", Baker cursed under his breath.

Julien raised his eyes for a bit, finding the urge to be offended. Elias immediately patted the kid's back to rein him in. It was also an opportunity to change the topic.

"Also, speaking of Cohen...", he scratched his head. "...Uh, she still wants your blessing to assume the role of Alpha-One, grandpa."

"Eh?"

"She insists she can do a better job leading our quick response team than Mr. Beardyface. So..."

"For fuck's sake... she's still pushing her luck even after that stunt in the sim?"

A clueless shrug from the jovial German caused the codger's mood to sour even more, much to Dominic's private amusement. That 'stunt' Baker was referring to was the simulation they all did almost a month ago. Back when Seamus and the rest of his circus were still in England. If memory served right, Eliza one-upped everyone when it came to the 'hostage rescue' department on that day. The experience was a funny case of poor communication, but the stern teacher would have nothing of it.

"Tell that ginger'ead that my point remains. Fuckin' zombies will roam the Earth first before I'll let her take the lead."

"A zombie outbreak you say?", Elias smiled. "The Americans have that every year. It's called Black Friday."

His stupid joke brought chuckles from everyone, albeit briefly. Even Julien managed to crack a smile. And just like that, a little levity had returned and all was well in the world. Everyone left the Ops Room with mildly uplifted hearts, with everyone now eager to carry on with the rest of the day. PT, breakfast, and perhaps another run with that stupid VR simulation. Any of those were better than the mourning that they needed to keep at bay.

There was a prayer at the back of their heads, dedicated to their sister-in-arms.

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** In this chapter, I wanted to explore how Team Rainbow would react if they suffered a casualty or two. This was something that the original Tom Clancy novel didn't go into much detail, so I figured I give it a go and portray them as professionals. I think they should be prepared for it more though, because of the storm looming over the horizon *wink* *wink*.

By the way, if you're wondering about that VR simulation Dominic was referring to, read Chapter Six of my 'Behind the Mask' story.


	15. Chapter 14 - Poor Fools

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen - "Poor Fools"**

* * *

Downtown Fayetteville, North Carolina  
La Marquis Restaurant

Day 16

...

"You know Ethan, this wasn't the place I had in mind...", Emily complained, shifting in her seat. "...Last time you and Gabe brought me here, I had indigestion."

"*sigh* I still don't have my signing bonus, remember?"

"Wait, that one wasn't a joke?"

"Yeah. So unless you wanna take out that fat purse of yours... This is the best I could do. Take it or leave it."

He punctuated his complaint with a quick sip of water. This woman still had the nerve to complain about his tastes, despite this dinner being his treat, but he let it slide. He focused instead on more trivial stuff like the dumb house music or his suit and tie. The latter was quite a peeve for him; the pair he picked for tonight was not exactly the best in this week's wardrobe. Times like this, he would usually wear his dress uniform or rent a nice black coat from the nearest shop. A fine dinner suit, or God-forbid a tuxedo, was never something he thought he'd need in his line of work.

While he hated the formal wear, at least he blended in with the rest of the restaurant's patrons. All of them following the same dress code as if tonight was a second-rate cocktail party. _La Marquis_ served French food like Emily had wanted, but the quality didn't compare to those trendy restos in Virginia Square. Money, money, money… Team Rainbow's stipend was not as high as he'd hoped. Perhaps that wasn't the point. Ethan already had better hazard pay and life insurance than his peers in the Army, and he would be such an ungrateful bastard to ask for more.

"Hmph. I also expect a wardrobe upgrade from you next time. Who'd you have to kill to wear that crap?"

"Some redhead who kept shitting on other people's style.", he replied with a fake smile.

She giggled at his lame joke. He half-expected her to be way out of her element tonight, considering that this place didn't placate to her stupid Upper Midwest tastes. But she nonetheless defied predictions. She filled out her dark, low-cut dress like it was nobody's business. She smelled of perfume and skin lotion, same as his wife, back in the good old days. Her lips were painted in a deep shade of red and her ears were adorned by diamond teardrops, likely a thousand-dollar each. It was a bit weird seeing her like this, all dolled-up. Tonight, Emily Jacobsen looked nothing like a Case Officer for the CIA's Special Activities Division.

All of this seemed like a dream.

"Hey... I hope you don't mind…", she started another conversation. "…But I did some digging about your friend in San Antonio."

"Who?"

"The brunette. You know, the cute one we had to…"

She trailed off, hoping for Ethan to get the message. Which he did, judging by his slightly slack-jawed expression.

"Oh... Well, this is kinda awkward don't you think?"

"Woah, woah... Hold your horses.", she held up a hand. "I didn't find anything. No name, no face match, no NSA-record… She's not American, isn't she?"

"She's French. An Operator, just like me. That's all you need to know."

"Ah, a kindred spirit. No wonder you like her."

"E-Excuse me?"

He widened his eyes for a moment. The redhead grinned like a tease, relishing how he tried not to stammer with his words. Ethan was caught completely off guard, forcing him to feel a tinge of warmth in his face.

"Come on, Ethan. You think I didn't notice? The way you talk about her, the way you worry like a care bear… So fuckin' _cute_ … Does little Jenny know her dad's got a new girlfriend?"

The shit-eating smile grew even more mischievous. But to the woman's dismay, the man resisted her ploy and he remained firm.

"…That's none of your business, Emily. Keep at it and you'll do more than pick up the bill for all this crap."

"Hahaha! Relax big boy, I was only messing with ya..."

She took another slip from her glass of water. A moment later, their table was approached a young man in a bright, blue suit and a kitchen apron, carrying two large plates on either hand. Their orders have arrived. Mouth-watering bourguignon, French bread, two bowls of onion soup, plus a few side dishes. The waiter was followed by another one, who poured a tall bottle of _vin doux naturel_ into their glasses. Ethan motioned to his guest to do the honors. She smiled in reply, pausing for a few seconds, before taking the first bite.

"...Speaking of business... You have something for me, if I recall."

"Oh. Right."

Ethan quickly brought out a small envelope from his suit's inner pockets. Tonight's dinner also served another purpose.

"Here you go. That's everything my security clearance allowed me to have... Make sure you get that to your boss... with our thanks."

She opened the little package and brought out several small pieces of paper. Her blue eyes scanned left to right, top to bottom; her head bobbed slightly at certain points. She seemed impressed. On her hands were a rough summary of the security arrangements Team Rainbow proposed for the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit; the Summit on Freedom Day, which was less than a week away. The papers told nothing specific, however. No names, no exact positions, and no inventory, but rather a general overview of the level of protection that the delegates could expect. Unlike the other plans that Emily might have already seen, the ones in her hands had factored in another element: a top-secret cadre of counter-terror specialists who would be defending the venue from behind the shadows. She seemed to understand the need for ambiguity, and this brought a small smile to Ethan's lips.

Despite everything that happened recently, he was still grateful to have someone like her as an ally.

"Good work. This is a start.", she commended him. "I'll put this in our databanks once the tech guys are done fixing our security protocols…"

"Huh? What happened?"

"We... recently had a hacking attempt at our off-site intel cache in Seoul. Whatsitsname… Mok Myeok Tower? We stopped the hacker, but I think they made off with some of our data…"

She placed the envelope inside her purse.

"...Anyway, that's our problem and not yours... Do you have anything new on your people in France?"

"Eh, they're still pre-occupied...", Ethan shrugged. "…Everyone's ramping up security because of what's been happening Stateside, so..."

"Man, you guys are just overreacting. The Pentagon's sending more JSOC assets over there, last I heard. Seems redundant to have you guys making the rounds as well."

"Hey don't look at me. I'm just a door-kicker."

"Yeah, of course you'd say that..."

It was time for them to eat.

...

More than an hour had gone by and the dinner plates were clean of food. And yet, Ethan and Emily continued to chat, telling stories or laughing the night away. Their spirits were unusually high for a couple of black ops vets. Could be the intoxication kicking in or a genuine feeling of joy, perhaps both depending on one's perspective. Regardless, tonight had been a chance for the two of them to make up for lost time. To make up for the long lull in contact, ever since the ex-Delta sniper left to join a different unit, and the spook lied to him through her teeth and kept her job. Tonight they could loosen up and act as if everything was right in the world. As if the White Masks were a distant foe, and everything that happened this year was nothing more than a huge distraction.

"You've got to be kidding me!", Emily continued to laugh. "The Broncos? Really?"

"That was Gabe's home team. You know I had to put 'em in his casket in some way."

"Oh man... You know, you D-boys are a bunch of frat kids sometimes. Like seriously, that was his damn funeral!"

"Come on, you know that's what he would've wanted… And as if you goddamn spooks get a better treatment when you get killed…"

"We get a big insurance payout for our folks, you idiot… Plus a star in a wall that the janitors will keep shiny forever."

Ethan burst out laughing, barely containing himself.

"But then Langley auctions the rest of your shit, especially if you don't have a next of kin..."

"You're just jealous because your ex-wife's already taken everything!"

Another exchange of chuckles ensued, as Ethan poured more wine into their glasses. This time, he was damn sure that the alcohol was dictating his speech, punctuated by the fuzziness slowly building up in his head. Soon enough he would be off his rockers, but that's all standard fare for a typical night out with a friend. As he took another sip, he let his eyes wander- perhaps too much for his own good. Emily. He found her presence rather… distracting. Comforting. The way she smiled and laughed was enough for him to lower his guard. To think that this was also the same woman who used to boss him and Gabe around. The woman whose job involved sticking a Beretta into other people's foreheads and make them sing, the contrast was quite jarring indeed.

Without a doubt, the bond between the two of them remained strong, despite everything. They weren't just colleagues; they were also survivors. The only ones left of AFO Blackjack. The only ones who walked out of Operation Witch Hunt alive. The only ones who nearly captured "The Engineer", or "Mohandes", or whatever fucking name that Adam Kipper would be using these days. Regardless if it was luck or divine providence, Emily and Ethan's survival certainly had a purpose. The man struggled to find the answer in the bottom of his glass, while he observed the lady taking another sip. Her reddened cheeks gave away her mind's addled state.

Unbeknownst to him, her train of thought took a similar path like his. Only she had the right mind to make a detour...

"I'm glad that people like you still exist, Ethan.", Emily spoke again. "You're a rare breed."

"(hic) …Of what?"

"Brave men. Good men… Definitely what these people need, but don't give a flying fuck about…"

Her smile slowly disappeared as she set down her glass.

"... _Men fight for liberty and win it with hard knocks_...", she went on. _"...Their children, brought up easy, let it slip away again, poor fools._.."

"… _And their grandchildren are once more slaves_.", Ethan finished the quote. "David Lawrence."

"Yup. My dad made me read some of his books… Back when I was still doing my MA in Minneapolis…"

Her eyes trailed down, as her lips drew a weak smile. The tone of her voice also changed, a bit more somber and more serious. Ethan listened in silence, letting the taciturn woman divulge tidbits of her personal life- a few more things he didn't know about her. It became so much clearer now, where her posh tastes came from. A fascinating story for another day.

"The guy's a weirdo if you looked him up.", he snickered.

"…Heheh, yeah… But you gotta admit; he did have a few good points… Like how peace can sometimes be a bad thing… How it makes people grow weak… and complacent…"

"What do you mean?"

Emily responded with a strong glare. The genuine joy in her heart seemed all but completely wiped off, replaced by the bland expression of coldness. The Case Officer's default persona. Ethan realized that the sudden change of mood hinted at the gravity of her next words. It undoubtedly caught his attention, causing him to quietly shift in his seat and prop up his back properly.

"America's surrounded by enemies, Ethan…", she lectured. "…Fifteen years ago, we had a multi-billionaire almost start a global Ebola outbreak… Then in 2008, we had Mexican terrorists turn Las Vegas into a goddamn war zone… A lot of good men died to stop them and keep everything from going to hell…"

Then, she started to pour more wine.

"…Now we have the White Masks, our own flesh and blood… These days you think more and more people should be stepping up to do the right thing, but noooo... Most of 'em don't want to budge. They love their lives more... They love their freedoms more… They'd rather get into the latest fad or worry about their fucking bottom-line, than go out of their way to protect their country…"

It was an unexpected tirade, unlike any Ethan had ever seen from her. But he understood where she was coming from. The biggest bane of every patriot is the apathy that surrounds them. It was something she had been harboring in her heart for quite some time now. He tried to placate her, out of reflex. Sadly, it only added more fuel to the fire.

"People are different, Emily… You can't expect everyone to react like you want."

"Well, they should!", she suddenly raised her voice, drunkenly. "…What the fuck did they do after Bartlett, huh? …After Los Angeles? …After Redmond? Did they pay respects to the people who died? Did they get off their ass, take to the streets, talk to their congressmen or something? Or did they just say, 'Oh that's awful!'… 'Oh, what are we gonna do?'...then go back to eat their dinners?"

"…"

"And thanks to them, we're getting all the blame! Us! They thought Bartlett was _our_ fault, when in fact the people were so goddamn _weak_ and _stupid_ to let their guard down in the first place! One of these days, this fucking country... fucking everyone... will realize that we deserve better from them! …That they need us more than they think!"

Her eyes were wide throughout the whole rant, stunning even the consummate professional she shared her table with. People from the nearby tables started looking at her, accusingly. Ethan, to his dismay, was humbled into silence, and so he took another sip from his glass. The other patrons might be thinking that he and his lady guest were getting in an argument, ruining the atmosphere of pleasant dinner at Downtown. Luckily, the alcohol didn't get _too far_ into her system. Using whatever reason left in her head, she immediately realized the fuss she'd just made and sat down. She took a deep breath and buried her face into her hands, out of embarrassment.

"Shit… I'm… I'm sorry."

In truth, he wanted to laugh at her. He was amazed that she worked up quite the nerve to express her emotions, no matter how bitter they sounded. The least he could do was give her a smile of reassurance. He could only imagine the stress she was going through tonight. The total clusterfuck that was Operation Witch Hunt, the attack at Bartlett University, and the on-going inquest of the CIA. Having to face the collective blowback from these three would surely put a strain in anyone's patience. Then there's the Summit in Freedom Day, which presumably demanded her attention as well, per orders from the Special Activities Division. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Ethan was very thankful to have left the CIA at the most opportune time. If he had stayed and turned down Rainbow Six's offer, he would be in the same boat as Emily, facing the same consequences and doing just as badly. His plate might not be as bad as hers, since he wasn't the one calling the shots, but still.

"Hey, it's alright.", he placed his palm on her hand. "If you need to vent… I'm all ears."

She didn't look at him. But, she did manage to work up a small grin. It was a start. She took her glass of wine again. This time, she finished it in one fell swoop, bottom's up. Ethan was shocked at her sudden lack of manners, to which she replied with a short laugh.

"Thanks."

"Yeah... Chalk it up as something else I have to put up with you."

Another round of laughter ensued. Neither of them expected the dinner to lead to this abrupt roller-coaster of emotions. He looked at her again with a renewed perspective. She was a determined worker. She might not like to see her work go unnoticed by the apathetic public, but she still took her job seriously. Ethan smiled in his head, noticing in her a familiar fire and heart from another person he knew.

Or was it the other way around? He couldn't tell this time. Perhaps it was the wine or his fleeting thoughts, but his mind visualized a different woman. For some reason, there was… something in his chest, weighing him down. He raised his eyes to look at Emily for a second time. However, the red-haired lady in front of him was no more. His mind told him that there was another person sitting in front of him, a girl with brown hair and freckled cheeks. Green eyes that were lively as they were beautiful. A mischievous grin, honest yet heartfelt. She wore no makeup up nor did she flaunt herself with a low-cut dress and jewels. Just a black shirt and a pair of Army trousers that signified her profession. Her presence was warm and welcoming. His mind pictured her enjoying the food and drink at this restaurant, the quaint reminders of her home…

Somewhere down south, she was slumbering in peace at a hospital, but nonetheless fighting a battle for her life. This night, this little celebration of life, should've been hers. Ethan felt guilty to be away from her, even if reality did not offer him any other alternative. He felt his chest grow heavier. He tried his best to hide it.

"So what's next for Agent Jacobsen?", he asked Emily. "Freedom Day's gonna come and go, so there's no reason for you to stick around."

"London… (hic) I can't tell you the details."

"Business trip again, huh? With a wig and everything?"

"Yeah… You want to know about it, Ethan? Get me more info about your guys… And you better spill 'em out now, before I sedate you... And I'll… you know…"

At that point, it was clear that the alcohol was _really_ kicking in. She laughed without restraint, and Ethan joined in without missing a beat, completely abandoning the composure he possessed earlier. Both of their minds went somewhere filthy. Stupidly, he took the bottle of dark wine and poured the last of its contents into their glasses. Then, he motioned to the waiter to for another round. As the young man turned around and left, two hands raised to meet halfway across the table, each of them raring for a toast. Their night had just begun.

Ethan knew he would regret it later.

"To the CIA… and all the 'poor fools' they protect.", he proclaimed.

"Heh. To good men… and whoever the fuck you're working for."

*ting*

...

* * *

Outside of Hameau du Noblisse, Courchevel, France  
1140 hours (CET)

Strike Element Bravo

...

The sky was so bright.

An annoyed frown graced Dominic's eyebrows, as he laid prone behind the trees. He had been stationary for quite a while now, peering into his binoculars, resting beside his customized Remington M870. He swore that his balls would've frozen off by now, if it weren't for the thick fabric of his insulated winter gear. Apparently this was Old Man Baker's definition of 'business as usual' for everyone. Mere days after the Redmond Siege, Team Rainbow was up and at it again: a routine security operation with local law enforcement at an isolated tourist attraction in the French Alps, at almost zero degrees Celsius. The insufferable waiting only made the scruffy German even more uncomfortable, unlike Elias and Mark who kept themselves busy.

His mind kept telling him that today's little foray into Courchevel was a _massive_ waste of time and resources. The Team was better off doing something else. Something more productive than being a lap dog for a bunch of armchair generals in Paris. Gustave concurred, complaining earlier that he'd rather fly to America and check on Emmanuelle personally, rather than work with his old employers. Jack was a lot more passive, but his suggestion to coordinate with the Gendarmerie and let _them_ do the drudgery of police work was just as sensible. Hell, even Taina, the psycho bitch herself, made more sense when she said they should be doing runs in the sims or in the Kill House, instead of partaking in this… field trip.

Alas, it was too late to protest their orders. Everyone was locked and loaded today, for the incredibly mundane task of delivering a fucking piece of paper. No White Masks to deal with, as far as the briefing told them, but the day was still young.

"Rifle-One in position.", the airwaves came to life with a Russian man's voice. "Image enhancer active… ready to scan for targets, over."

"Rifle-Two, on station.", went a British soldier, buzzing into the radio as well. "We've clear LOS at the front yard, over."

"Rifle-Three is in position by the lake, over."

It was followed by another one. The next speaker over the horn was an American. Craig Jenson.

"Check all. Safeties on, but keep your eyes peeled. Engage only upon visual confirmation of hostile activity… Bravo-One, check in."

A faint sigh escaped to the left of Dominic. It came from Eliza Cohen, who was also lying prone and a keeping firm hand on the call button on her radio. Strapped across her back was a Remington R4-C clad in arctic camouflage. Despite her best efforts to prove herself to Baker, she was going to play second fiddle today. Hence, the disappointment strewn all over her face.

"Go, Alpha."

"Ash, keep your drones ready. They're the first ones in once it's go-time. Glaz will maintain eyes on our friendlies at the yard… Two and Three will watch the background. How copy?"

"Yeah, roger…"

The German turned his binoculars to the direction of a small group of people some, 200 meters away, clad in the blues of the Gendarmerie Nationale. They sat inside a white patrol car, acting rather pensive, not befitting their high status in French law enforcement's totem pole. Then again, no sane cop would be at ease with the kind of situation they were forced into.

 _Hameau du Noblisse_. A fancy name for an overly-decorated lodge for upper-class twits, tucked into the French Alps like others of its kind. As someone who came from a blue-collar family, Dominic had always possessed a low opinion of the rich and powerful. So to his delight, some 'justice' would be done to spite the pompous bourgeoisie today. The world-class Chalet would be the subject of a search warrant, served by a squad of Gendarmes. In the infinite wisdom of some top dog in the French capital, the cops would have an elite cadre of commandos as backup. The overreaction was deemed necessary because of new security directives from the EU, elevated levels of terrorism across the world… yadda yadda.

" _Es ist wirklich nett hier_ (This place is really nice), Monika.", Elias softly spoke into his phone. " _Wir könnten doch unsere Flitterwochen hier verbringen_ (We could spend our honeymoon here), hm?"

There was silence on the other end for a good five seconds. Until it returned to life with an annoyed and clearly embarrassed female voice.

"… _zurück an die Arbeit_ (You go back to work), _Dummkopf_."

"Ugh… _Holt euch ein Zimmer ihr beiden_ (Get a room you two)."

"Oi, you're really doin' this now!?", Mark berated them with a hushed voice. "...Are we running a recce (recon op) over here or what?"

Rather than listen to the young man, they simply continued their thing, this time speaking in whispers that Dominic found even more nauseating. All the while, Eliza maintained a serious expression while reviewing her operational notes. Admittedly, he was impressed by her focus even despite the beef she had with Baker's judgement. A moment later, she tipped her chin to the SAS engineer, who was tinkering with his GC90 jammer to keep their radio channels secure from unwanted snoopers. He promptly handed control of Rainbow's airwaves over to her. It was her turn to speak with the blonde German in America.

"IQ, you sure you have the right address?", Eliza asked.

" _Ja_. Europol have pinpointed outgoing and incoming calls to that grid in the last 24 hours... DGGN has confirmation as well."

The reality of the situation was a lot more complicated than it seemed. _Hameau du Noblisse_ was supposed to be unoccupied at this time of the year, as nobody was in the market for renting a winter get-away paradise in June. However, the neighbors recently saw a group of people going in and out of the place. No ruckus, no fuss, but they didn't look like the Chalet's caretakers. Then a few days ago, a couple of military trucks drove near the property and unloaded a lot of cargo, boxes and trunks of questionable nature. The trucks didn't bear any markings or plate numbers, a fact that should raise a lot of suspicion by itself. As such, the Direction Générale de la Gendarmerie Nationale came into the picture, to try and unravel the mystery before it went public. They were wary of what they'd uncover at the Chalet, and thus they asked the guys from Herefordshire to help them. To the DGGN, Rainbow was ostensibly a small group of security contractors, which was enough reason to _literally_ leave them out in the cold with an entire squadron of cops at their disposal.

The ridiculousness of the whole thing didn't escape Eliza's grumpy head.

"Pfft… I bet this is just false alarm. I heard from Meg that JSOC was operating in these parts not too long ago."

"You think I didn't know that? If that's true, why didn't the Americans tell us anything about this?"

"Look at the bright side, Monika.", Dominic commented. "If this call turns out to be a bust, at least we'll have more time for drinks later."

"False alarm or not, the DGGN wants us to check it out. You cannot be too careful.", Monika chimed in over the radio.

Nobody answered her, even though she made a good point. Regardless if today would be a wasted call or not, Rainbow was about to go all in. Two Strike Elements and three sniper teams, two of which were manned by auxiliaries from the British SFSG. Meanwhile, the Gendarmerie Nationale had several squad cars holding position outside of the perimeter, that could all be ordered to move in at a moment's notice. They had a couple of armored SUVs as well, ready to barge into the gate- taking a page from the Spanish GEO's playbook in Ibiza, which was barely a few weeks ago by Dominic's estimates. The strategy was bold and solid overall, though nobody could deny that the hardware they were about to roll out today bordered on the excessive.

"Alpha, this is Bravo…" Eliza radioed. "…Drones still have no visual on any activity. Zero tangos and civvies in the outer perimeter. What's the call?"

Apparently, French law said it was illegal to have little police robots go inside other people's properties, even during an operation, unless they had a court order. That job went to the Gendarmerie squad at the courtyard, who had the documents in their hands.

"Check that, Bravo. Let the cops do their thing first. Then, we'll move in if need be."

"Alpha, recommend you let Bravo approach from the east.", she called to Craig again. "You'll need all the guns you can bear if we really have hostiles inside."

"Negative. Keep the drones spinning and watch our flanks. Whatever you do, don't rush. This ain't one of those fucking sims."

"Yeah, yeah… I hear you."

"I mean it; hold in place. No explosives, unless things go south. Over and out."

The line went dead. In turn, Eliza depressed her hold on the call button, but it was obvious that the vitriol remained. Not only was she taking the backseat of today's little operation, she was also commanding the Team's reserve force. Dominic always figured her to be a reckless, gung-ho little bitch, and he seemed right on the money. Her next words only made it even clearer.

"Craig's starting to sound like that Spanish bitch I worked with back home… Ugh, fuck me in the ass…"

"Here? Now? Kinky…", Elias blurted out.

"Shut up."

The incensed woman whacked the side of his riot helmet, which did nothing but elicit a quick laugh from the guy. Exasperated, Dominic and Mark looked into their watches, ticking the seconds away, as a better form of entertainment. The sooner they were given the green light, the better…

…

Then, came a beep. Within seconds, a French dispatcher started talking into the radio, communicating the DGGN's signal to proceed. Heeding the call, the lone police patrol at the courtyard started to leave their vehicle and make their way towards the Chalet's front door. One of them held a brown envelope in his hands, presumably carrying the search warrant, while the other two kept one hand on their holstered service pistols. They were scared and antsy, judging from their body language. Of course, Team Rainbow would not let any of them get hurt. Everyone had their game faces on.

"Alpha, be ready to move on my mark.", Craig's order was overheard in the secure frequency. "Bravo, shift LOS to the front yard and patio area, how copy?"

"Roger that. Re-positioning drones."

Eliza then pulled out her PDA, as did Mark. They fumbled their fingers across the touchscreens, relaying commands to their wheeled bots, whirring somewhere among the snow. Meanwhile, Dominic kept his ear open to the radio chatter, listening in on police movements and orders as they happened. His partner, Elias, kept a close hand on his shield and another on his Steiner binoculars, anticipating any change. Glaz and the other snipers reported no movement from the windows and halls of the Chalet, which gave both Alpha and Bravo a little pang of worry.

Luckily, the cops at the courtyard managed to reach their destination with no trouble. In clear view of Dominic's binoculars, he saw one of the cops reach out a hand on the door and started knocking, calling the attention of everyone inside. The three men were out in the open, barely little cover protecting them; they would've been shot by now if a bad guy was on the other side. To think they still had the courage to risk their lives to follow protocol, but such was the price of discipline and efficiency. They were holding out on hope that their politeness would grant them an audience with the Chalet's suspicious dwellers, and maybe let them carry out the search warrant without causing too much of a stir. If shit hit the fan, a cadre of commandos would storm the place and solve matters their way. _Only then_ would the cops have every good reason to panic.

Though 'panic' could be happening faster than anticipated...

"Argh. Bollocks…", Mark cursed under his breath. "…Alpha-One, I've lost contact with Drones One and Two… Three and Four are acting up."

"Check that. Bravo-One, sitrep. Over."

"Don't know. Signal interference maybe?", Eliza pondered. "Bravo-Four, are you sure that wasn't you?"

"Negative. My jammers aren't giving off any atmospheric bounce… Resetting signal range, hold on…"

The young man went to his jammer again and tinkered with its knobs. SOP for a mission this delicate was to keep the GC90 Signal Disruptors active to prevent anyone from tuning into Rainbow's messages. Normally, they had a range of about ten meters, but these could be boosted to cover a small grid. Team Rainbow's electronics equipment had been hardened to stave off the jammers effects, so it didn't make sense for them to act funny like this. Mark worked his magic with frustrated breaths, but to no avail. The look he gave Eliza behind tinted goggles was that of confusion and disappointment.

"Dammit…", she muttered. "…Rifle-One, do you see any activity inside?"

"Negative. My scope is clear…", Tim replied in his coarse accent. "…No movement on the first and second floors."

It was a red flag that registered in Dominic's mind. First the smart guy was at a loss of words, then the resident sharpshooter had nothing useful to add as well. Slowly, it became clear that the 'field trip' was getting a lot less dull and boring as he originally thought. He found himself gripping his shotgun with a tighter fist and an absent mind. Eliza also felt the same apprehension in her gut. She set her portable computer down, then pulled out one of her custom breaching rounds from its pouches. She fed it into her grenade launcher with an audible click while she kept a good eye at the French cops. They still continued knocking at the front door, but to no avail.

Eager to learn more about his situation, Dominic stashed away his binoculars and pulled out his own PDA from his chest pocket, which was synchronized with the team's on-site observation system. Thanks to Markie's ingenuity, Bravo had access to the POVs of Alpha's helmet-mounted cameras. It was a useful system for pinpointing targets and watching each other's backs in the field.

Enter Alpha-One's camera feed. Craig was crouched behind some cover in the gazeebo, from where the rest of Strike Element Alpha had positioned themselves. The experienced SEAL was also aware of the technical difficulties. Perhaps because he trusted his gut, he signaled his four-man team to move towards the Chalet. Silent and methodical, guns raised and pointed at the windows. When they reached the Chalet's outer walls, he gestured his mates to hook up. One by one, they tossed their ropes into the air, carefully guiding them to land into the crevices at the second-floor balcony, wary of making a sound. With the lines stabilized, Craig gave a thumbs up to Jack Estrada and Taina Pereira: Alpha-Four and Alpha-Three. No words were needed to tell them to get into position. As they climbed up to an entry position, Craig set down his backpack and pulled out one of his rifle shields from its sheath, which he then affixed to his scoped SCAR-H. From there, he planted his feet into the walls and abseiled up. It was his job to scope the place with his own eyes, in lieu of the shoddy electronic equipment.

"This is Alpha-One, my team's in *static*… Ready to move to the second deck."

"Roger that.", Eliza acknowledged the report. "Rifle-One, maintain eyes on the welcome party; we'll keep drones on standby."

" _Da_."

"Alpha, cops still aren't getting anyone to answer the door.", Eliza called to Craig again. "Again, recommend you let Bravo take up positions in the east so we can move in force, over."

"Roger… Can you *static*."

"Say again, Alpha? You're breaking up."

"*static*"

Another bout of radio static, which caused Dominic to exhale in frustration. Nevertheless, he continued watching the PDA, observing Alpha's entry into the Chalet using their ropes. But the faulty gear had given them pause; forcing them to hold in place. And the cops were still not any closer to serving out their search warrant. At this point, it was clear that something was up. Craig's movements spoke for themselves, as he volunteered himself to be the first man to go inside. he held his weapon with a tight grip, ignoring the added weight, and peered into the scope, to face the second floor window. He tilted his head to the right to get a better angle, and also to make sure that the shield covered his profile.

*Bang!*

A gunshot. Suddenly, the helmet-mounted camera was showered by glass. Pieces of the rifle shield disintegrated from Craig's rifle as he let out a quick grunt of pain and a tumble into the snow below. The sound was followed by bursts of fire from Jack and Taina, who poured lead into the source of the sound using their suppressed sub machineguns. Meanwhile, a masked Gustave Kateb came into the camera's perspective, who wasted no time to come the fallen man's aid.

"Operator down. Alpha-One is wounded… We have enemy contact. Repeat, we have *static*"

" _Sheise_ _!_ ", Dominic cursed.

And just like that, all pretense of a 'simple' police operation went right out of the window. The shot that resounded throughout the Alps was heard by everyone. The cops at the front door looked at each other, then immediately dove into cover, just in time for a stream of bullets to burst out of the other side. They left the brown envelope where it fell, a search warrant and court order that failed their purpose, as the officers returned fire with their service pistols.

"All Strike Elements! Weapons free! Weapons free!", Eliza radioed.

A surge of adrenaline engulfed the bloodstream and a sense of urgency prevailed. The radio chatter immediately skyrocketed, filled with frantic French officers reporting about the sudden gunshots. They were frozen by indecision, awaiting orders from above before they could act. Bravo-One, fortunately, didn't need an armchair general's approval. She simply tapped Elias's right shoulder twice, who returned the favor to Dominic, then to Mark. It was a silent signal for everyone to move out of their position and to join the fray. Hands immediately latched onto their respective combat equipment: an R4 rifle, an MP5k, a compact 12-gauge, and a bulky flash shield. Safeties went off in quick succession.

"Rifle Teams, Bravo is moving out! Give us covering fire!"

"Roger. Engaging.", Tim acknowledged the request.

Soon, loud reports of high-caliber rifles echoed from the distance, breaking into windows and drilling into soft walls. The gunshots were later accompanied by a metallic crash at the gate and the wailing of police sirens. The Gendarmerie had come out in force, armed to the teeth, and swarming the place; a show of power that was sure to catch any armed tango off-guard. But there was no time to celebrate the cavalry's implacable arrival. With Alpha-One out of action, Eliza needed to position her team in the best place where they could do good. In this case, the basement area, which would lead to the Chalet's much advertised wine cellar. It was the hasty first steps of their Plan B: enter through the east, sweep the lower level and work their way up, while Alpha took care of the north.

"Hold right here!", she ordered her team to stop. They were only a few feet away from the entrance. "Bravo-Three, take point with your shield. Two, take care of the door."

The two Germans looked at each other for a second. Then, they nodded and bumped their fists.

"Let's do this."

Like in training, the shield-totting man raised his cumbersome G52, while Dominic positioned himself behind it, his compact 12-gauge at the ready. A hand was wrapped around one of the harnesses of Elias's backpack, to be used as leverage for the swift entry. Eliza, meanwhile, motioned for Mark to watch her back as she readied her assault rifle. Next, she raised her left hand and produced three fingers for the other men to see. Then it became two fingers. Then one. Then it became a fist.

It was time.

*Bang!*

One carefully-aimed shotgun blast was enough to destroy the lock. It also served as the cue for the flash shield to come into the fore, break the door open, and tackle whoever was behind the frame. Wood splinters and pieces of snow flew indoors, basking in the faint yellow light of the lower level. Dominic's suspicions were right, there _was_ a tango waiting for them. A man in a black ski mask, fatigues, and body armor, standing upright and raring to fire. But the shock and awe of Bravo's entry had caught him completely unprepared; he barely had enough time to pull the trigger on his rifle.

" _Lächeln_! (Smile!)", Elias exclaimed as he pressed the trigger on his shield.

This created a bright flash of more than three million Candelas; more than enough to impair a bad guy's eyesight. As the tango fell to the ground, Dominic aimed his shotgun at his chest and shot him at point blank range. Eliza, who was only behind the duo, followed suit with a double tap from her R4. The blood and the scream pointed at a confirm kill; no amount of body armor could protect anyone from a 12-gauge shell and a couple of 5.56s unleashed in such tight quarters.

"Tango down."

"Go! Go!", the female team leader ordered. "Take the stairs and link-up with Alpha! Four, with me!"

" _Jawhol_!"

"Wilco!"

The team had split up. Dominic followed his partner as they made their way up the stairs, encountering a lot of gunfire and yelling, as Eliza and Mark disappeared into the wine cellar, guns blazing at any other target they found. Upon reaching the top, the Germans proceeded to another staircase leading to the second floor, where they were warded off by a masked enemy with an assault rifle. This time, the tango had the sense of mind to shoot at the approaching Operators from behind cover. Bullets trickled into Elias's shield like hail stones, but he kept his legwork firm and steady. He knelt to let the big slab of metal cover more of his body, and at the same time provide a platform for his battle-buddy to return fire from. And this was something he did with vicious abandon, firing three full shotgun blasts from the shield. Alas, their enemy was well-protected; neither side had an advantage.

Dominic's radio suddenly buzzed. It was Tim.

"Bravo-Two, this is Rifle-One. I have a clear shot on your target. Hold in place..."

*Thwoop*

The snap of air was followed by a quick splatter. Then a gasp and the metallic clang of a falling rifle. Then the bone-crushing thuds of a body tumbling down the staircase. Another tally to add into today's kill count. The Germans were thankful for their Russian friend's implacable timing.

"…You're cleared to move, over."

"Much obliged, Glaz!", Dominic thanked him. "Moving to second floor now!"

And so the duo resumed their trek up the stairs, with Elias at the forefront. There was broken glass, debris, and empty shell casings everywhere, and the shooting showed no signs of dying out. The radio frequencies were filled with police chatter, presumably reporting on tangos that have been subdued, sectors that have been secured. The rest of the Gendarmes began moving into the Chalet itself, with a few others maintaining a perimeter. The skirmish needed to end as quickly as it started, but there was still one cinch.

Upon reaching the second floor, Dominic saw a couple of familiar faces. A lithe figure with a skull mask and a man with a neck gaiter and pair of sunglasses. Alpha-Three and Alpha-Four, hugging a nearby wall, somehow managed to get inside the building amidst all the chaos. It was their job to secure the north sector, but they were held back by another room on the other end of the hallway. This one was completely closed off with a lot of furniture and barbed wire, like a makeshift barricade. The Brazilian woman motioned for Dominic to move to her position because someone was taking potshots at them. The bullets whizzing past was enough to persuade him and his partner to hurry up, with the latter keeping his bullet-ridden flash shield raised the entire time.

"Caveira! What's the hold up?", he asked.

"We have two assholes in that room.", the skull-faced woman muttered, brandishing a Beretta M12. " _Filho de puta_ (Son of a bitch)... They almost got when we were crossing the hall..."

The bullet holes on the wall behind her provided a more eloquent statement. Alpha and Bravo could overhear some shuffling on the other side as well, but it was barely audible. It seemed that the tangos in that room were re-positioning themselves, waiting for an opportunity to spring an ambush or something. All the more reason for everyone to exercise caution and not fall for the bait.

"Just two?"

"Yeah, I'm sure of it.", Jack replied to Dominic while looking into his cardiac sensor. "Unless it's just one guy with two heartbeats…"

"We'll make it zero… Bravo-One, we're held up at the second-floor hallway. Two tangos inside the master bedroom, northeast sector. Tangos armed with automatic weapons. Do you confirm?"

A woman answered back.

"Yeah, I got all that. Are you near the office area?"

"Affirmative."

"Perfect. Get a good distance from that room… I'm gonna improvise."

One could practically envision an impish smile on her face, judging by her tone. 'Improvisation' from one Eliza Cohen only meant one thing. Dominic and the rest looked at each other incredulously; they didn't need any more prompting to process what their Israeli friend just ordered. With haste, they shuffled away from the office room's wall and took cover nearby. After a few seconds, they heard a loud shot of air from the floor beneath them, presumably the kitchen area where Bravo-One was positioned. Then, there came a faint and abrupt whirring noise, that of a tiny drill. And then, another explosion, followed by terrified screams from two men.

*Boom!*

Such a large blast yield from a small projectile. Coupled with huge amounts of metal, wood, and concrete, crashing together, her breaching round was enough to shake the Chalet's foundations like an earthquake. Strong enough to terrify the strongest hearts no matter how briefly. Smoke spewed from where the rubble landed, causing the nearby Gendarmerie officers to exclaim in panic. When the commotion ended, two more gunshots were heard almost immediately after: the coup de grace for the tangos who fell from the room above.

"Tangos neutralized! We're clear!"

"Clear over here!"

"All clear! All clear!"

Just like that, the shooting was over. Dominic noted the call-outs, but he chose not to let his guard down. As did Elias and the other two Rainbow troopers. They fanned out with weapons raised to double-check if all of the threats had been dealt with. In the end, they carried out the search warrant in spirit; it only took dozens of bullets and a few kills to make it happen. First order of business was to comb over the dead and the rubble. Then, everyone would sort them out in evidence bags.

"This is Bravo-One to all Strike Elements. All tangos neutralized. I repeat, all tangos have been neutralized. Alpha-Two, relay to the DGGN that the AO has been secured..."

Eliza wasted no time taking charge, using gestures to get Taina and Mark to search for intel. No doubt she was relishing every minute of being in command for once. While she continued talking into her headset, the rest of her comrades went over the mess they'd just made. They needed to know who were the people they just killed. Dominic, ever the astute cop, went downstairs and knelt beside one of the tangos he traded shots earlier. Splayed, lifeless, and oozing with blood.

These bastards were very well-equipped, he thought. They had military-grade body armor, M4 rifles, and enough ammunition to keep fighting a protracted gun battle for hours on end. Their reflexes and tactics were far superior than any of bad guys Rainbow had fought against. Would've been a bloody battle, but these bastards lacked the numbers to take on a full compliment of Rainbow Operators, supported by the DGGN's own grunts. Dominic's curiosity was not yet sated, however, so he inspected the dead body even more, rifling through the pockets and pouches like a dirty scavenger. He didn't mind the awkward stares he received from the cops around him...

"What the hell…?"

There was something around the corpse's neck. It was small and shiny. Two pieces of tin, joined together by a small metal chain. They had words and numbers that any soldier would instantly recognize. They caught Jack's attention as well, who took a gander on what Dominic was holding.

"Are those... dog tags?"

" _Sheise_. You better show this to Ash."

Jack nodded and walked away with the tags, to which the German followed him.

And that was not the end of the revelation. Dominic noticed one of the overturned desks at the second-floor office. There were papers and folders strewn about that seemed innocuous at first glance. But a close inspection revealed something far more sinister. They were passports and travel documents, bearing the seals of multiple agencies from different nations. France, Germany, Poland, just to name a few. There was a paper bearing the seal of the United States Department of the Army, hastily redacted. There were also rough sketches of floorplans of some random buildings. Eliza was there to share in the discovery, as Jack handed to her the dog tags they'd just found on the first floor. She looked at Dominic with the same incredulous eyes as he had. None of them had any answer to the new questions that sprang in their heads. Perhaps their boss would shed a light in all of this.

But that option was quickly crossed out. The radios were still acting up.

"Oh, fuck me.", the woman cursed. "Mute? Did you find anything in the basement?"

"Negative."

"There has to be something messing with our comms. You sure you double-checked our frequency encryption?"

"I'm telling you it's not us, ma'am… Just wait a tic. I'll check the hardline on this place."

"Do it fast. I need to call Six... I think we just traded shots with American soldiers here."

"What?!"

Their conversation droned on, but Dominic didn't care much of it anymore. He wanted to rest. As he leaned over one of the railings on the second floor, he looked around and saw even more French police officers pour into the front door to secure the Chalet. The place was getting too crowded for his taste, prompting in him a desire to leave. But the intense skirmish had left his heart pounding erratically. Like it was his first real fight in ages. He felt a bit rusty. In just a split-second, this simple recon mission had devolved into a massive shootout, only resolved by the speedy response from the good guys. But this time, the odds were with them. Due to the malfunctioning radios and drones, it was touch and go for a while whether they would succeed. They did. If only Emmanuelle and her team had the same luck…

He set his shotgun down, and rested his hands on his knees, clasping them together. Elias was nearby, sitting adjacently and splaying his legs to be more comfortable. The two men made brief eye contact, then broke out laughing, as if in utter disbelief at what they'd just been through. They were of the same mind for now: all they wanted to do was to find a quiet corner and share a smoke. Maybe even pilfer one of the wine bottles downstairs and enjoy a glass or two. Anything to preoccupy themselves while they caught their breath. Looking around, the Chalet was not as bad Dominic thought it was. True, _Hameau du Noblisse_ was a decadent and pointless display of wealth , but the place was damn comfy. Nice, soft cushions in the sofas, a large fireplace in the great room, and an entertainment lounge to liven up any night. Pity that most of it had been shot to shit just a few minutes ago...

"Bravo-One, I think I found the source.", Mark reported over the radio. "There's a... scrambler connected to the comm tower outside. I'm turning it off now."

*Beep! Beep! Beep!*

It was the sound that brought their senses back in place. The ringing echoed throughout the room. At first, Dominic thought that it was their radios acting up again. Then it dawned on him that none of their equipment had that kind of beeping. Eyes went wide and started scanning their surroundings. The beeping persisted, almost as if it was getting louder. The search was accompanied by frantic hands and mild panic. It took a few seconds for Jack and Taina to discover the source of the noise. It was a small box beside the trunk they were inspecting. Slowly, they opened the package…

…

Dominic would never forget her expression. For the very first time, _Fräulein_ -Skullface showed genuine fear in her eyes.

"BOMB! WE HAVE A BOMB!"

"GET OUT! GET OUT!"

Everyone scurried to evacuate, including Dominic and Eliza. The cops who were with them squealed like children and shouted at their comrades the same message. The impending danger brought out cowards in the bravest of men. But there was one who didn't waver. Only a few eyes caught a glimpse of him. A riot helmet and winter camo darting past running figures. The clothes belonged to the other German.

"ELIAS!"

There was no stopping him. To Dominic's horror, he saw his friend make a mad dash towards the box and carry it outside, as swiftly as his bulky figure allowed. He made his way to the balcony and tossed the bomb into the air.

It was too late.

*BOOOOM!*

The ground shook and windows were shattered by the force of the blast. It was ear-ringing and painful; louder than the gunfire and screaming that prevailed in the Alps earlier. There was a huge plume of smoke from the balcony, mixed with scorched pieces of wood raining down. There was no sign of their comrade. Dominic got to his feet and went outside, spouting curses in his head. Pounding footsteps and frantic breaths. When he got out, he saw Elias on the ground, flat on his back. His body was covered in soot and black smudges. His bright uniform was washed with burns and many bloodstains. There were many pieces of metal embedded into his chest. In a cruel twist of fate, it was Dominic's turn to experience abject dread.

"Fuck! I NEED SOME HELP HERE!"

Eliza was not too far behind. She scrambled to kneel beside the fallen man. Her voice was panicky.

"Put pressure on that wound!", she yelled. Then, she activated her radio. "Operator down! Operator down! Doc, we need you at the second floor right now!"

Dominic went to work without delay, covering the gaping wound on his partner's chest. He was still alive, but was wheezing and gasping with pain breaths. Eliza opened her pack to retrieve the trauma kit.

"Elias! _Kannst du mich hören_ (can you hear me)?"

No words escaped his mouth. Only a faint mumble.

"M… M…"

"Don't talk brother! You'll be fine! You'll be fine, _ja_?"

With a pained grunt, Elias raised his hand and grasped at Dominic's sleeve. He clenched his fist as tight as he could. Fleeting strength, slowly fading away. He muttered the one name that occupied his mind.

"…M-Monika…"

…

The hand went limp.

...

* * *

...

Ethan knew he was going to regret this. But he didn't give a fuck anymore.

He held Emily in his arms in a tight embrace, laughing together with her. He could smell the alcohol in her breath, as she could with his. Then, he closed the door to the hotel room and flicked off the lights. With darkness enveloping them, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, pulling him to a deep kiss. It was such a warm feeling. Sweet and tender, marred only by the traces of wine. His hands found her back and caressed it all over, as they both started to undo the other's clothes. The redhead was the faster worker, easily removing the man's coat and his tie. With the first layer taken care of, she started to undo his belt buckle, while he went ahead to unbutton his white shirt.

Somewhere in his alcohol-addled mind, the man knew this was wrong. The guilt was accentuated when Emily, in her drunken stupor, smiled seductively and slipped off from her dress.

 _Oh my God…_

Her pale skin looked so vibrant in the dim light. All these years, Ethan never thought he would be seeing another woman bare her all to him. A well-endowed chest, a slim waist; her well-toned body only accentuated her looks. Her blue eyes pierced into his soul. Her red hair fluttered from behind her, resonating a luscious aura. It was hard to believe that this woman used to be his boss. And it was blasphemy to think this way, as no grunt would ever want to get in deep with a spook. But none of that mattered anymore. It was his turn to indulge her desire, stripping off his pants and boxers. His stiff member sprang free, causing her to giggle, though he wasn't going to let her have her way. To her surprise, he kissed her again, ravishing her sweet lips, and used his hands to find her nether regions. The sudden sensation caused her to moan into his mouth, stifling her own laughter.

She didn't know how much he wanted this, along with a great many things. He wanted his family whole again. A nice home, a quiet neighborhood, a good life. He wanted a return of the good old days. His wife waiting for him by the porch and a little girl running into his arms at the end of every day. He wanted his friends by his side again. Gabe, Omar, and the rest. He wanted another day with them. He wanted to crack beers or share smokes, or even watch the next Major League. He wanted to share stories. He wanted to laugh the night away and wake up wasted. He knew none of this would ever happen again.

So he settled for the next best thing. A woman. He wanted 'her'.

"Come here...", Emily beckoned him as she pulled away from his grasp.

The bed was just behind them. She laid there smiling at him, then she brought her arms back; giving him ample space to explore her body. Ethan, hungry for her touch, laid beside and guided his hand to trace her beautiful figure- her face, her arms, her waist, and then resting his palm on her belly. It buckled when it made it contact with him, surprised by the sudden warmth visiting the delicate space there, but it soon relaxed. He traced little circles around her bellybutton, causing her to giggle softly. He planted his lips on those sensitive spots, tickling her. The heat of their bodies rose up as that their skin met with each other. Then, Emily brought him closer, pulling him to another kiss.

Ethan looked deeply into her blue eyes as he inserted himself into her sheath. Her eyes widened. She gasped at each moment he went deeper, until finally he was fully wrapped in her warmth. Then, he gave her a quick peck in the cheek and he started rocking. Moans escaped their lips, as two bodies melded themselves together in abject lust. Hands held each other or clawed at one another's backs, anything to help them cope with the insurmountable pleasure.

"Yeah. Just like that...", she whispered, filled with elation.

Her sweet voice was enough to urge him to continue. And so, he bucked his hips into her with more fervor, driving himself closer to the edge. The grip of her warm flesh, the fragrance of her body, the smoothness of her soft skin... Ethan wanted to embrace everything from her. He buried his face in her bosom, kissing and licking. Her moans started to turn into yelps; her control over her voice soon started to fade away. Beads of sweat began to form in their bodies, as the minutes went by. Ethan soon got the hang of his movement, and soon he started pumping faster. The ecstasy rising from within Emily was incredible. She too found herself gyrating her hips in sync with his thrusts. Their passions were reaching crescendo...

...

When Ethan came to, he found himself in bed. A dark room with sweaty bed sheets. His arm curled around a naked woman, just as warm and fast asleep. He looked at the alarm clock at the end table, and realized that only a couple of hours had gone by. Just a few more minutes until the stroke of midnight. He didn't like what he saw. His head was all muddled and heavy, as he bid himself to go back to bed. To doze off and forget the world, even for just a little while...

*Ring! Ring!*

He opened his eyes again, irritated. The beeping came from his cellphone, stuffed inside one of his suit's pockets. He mumbled all sorts of curses as he dragged himself on his feet to pick up the damn thing. Blurry grey eyes tried make sense of the screen, which slowly became clearer as his vision improved. To his surprise, there had been a dozen messages left in his inbox while he slumbered. And the one trying to reach him had been fervent on waking him up, to no avail. It was Meghan.

He pressed the redial and waited for her to pick up.

"Hello...", he spoke into the device.

"Ace. Where the hell are you?"

"Oh... I'm in Downtown... with uh..."

He glanced at Emily's naked and curled form, covered by the sheets. He felt his heart sink. If Rainbow's intelligence officer had found out he was _literally_ in bed with a CIA agent, Ethan could expect more than just an earful of spite from the frogwoman. It might even earn him a suspicion or an official reprimand, or whatever the hell the Team had in lieu of those. The feeling of guilt started to build up. But to his surprise, the woman on the phone was not angry. Rather, she was concerned and troubled. He heard this kind of tone from her not too long ago. There was something ominous in the air.

"Listen. Get yourself clean and RTB as soon as you can.", she went on. "Six's calling for an emergency meeting."

"Wha…Why?"

"Something happened in France… It's Baker's guys."

It hit him like a punch to the gut. Whatever trace of weakness in his body was gone, even if it was temporary, to bring himself to attention. He could tell from Meghan's intonation that something had befallen their friends. Something terrible.

"W-What? Shit... I'm on my way."

With that, he closed the phone and went back to pick his clothes on the floor. He scurried to dress himself as his mind was bombarded with all sorts of thoughts. Last he heard about the team's counterparts in England, they were conducting a security operation in Courchevel, at the behest of the French internal security agency. If the boss had called for an emergency meeting in the dead of night, then it would only confirm his suspicions. One could fathom the details: did they get into a firefight? Did someone die? Ethan could think about the possibilities once he got back to Fort Bragg.

He felt bad about leaving Emily in such short notice, but he was needed elsewhere. And surprisingly, he wanted to go. He looked at her one last time. He probably should leave a note by her purse. Or maybe, a personal apology would be better.

*Knock, knock, knock*

There was someone at the door. It was probably the Room Service.

"Yes...?"

He opened the door without fixing his neck tie. There, bathed in the bright fluorescent lamps of the hallway, was the figure of a bald man, wearing the vest and suit of the hotel's staff. His eyes were trained at him. His hands were clasped behind his back. His face bore a serious expression.

"Ethan Mallory?"

"...Can I help you?"

The man didn't reply. Instead, he produced a gun and pulled the trigger, which caught Ethan by surprise. The barrel unleashed a dart that went straight to his unprotected neck. The pain came instantly as he tried to close the door shut. But the shooter was strong and fast; he tackled him into the floor and covered his mouth with a piece of cloth. Ethan couldn't fight back, as he was still woozy from his sleep and drunkenness. The bald guy overpowered him in less than a few seconds then he tied his hands with a pair of plasticuffs.

Ethan tried to free himself, kicking wildly and knocking away his shoes in the process. But it was all for naught. He started to feel weaker. His eyelids slowly became heavier. His arms and legs became numb until they stopped moving under his power. To his horror, he realized that there was something in the dart. A sleeping agent. A nerve toxin. Whatever it was, it caused him to slip into the darkness from whence he just woke up from. He was deathly tired. Then came the faint steps of bare feet from behind him. They were followed by the sweet voice of a woman.

It was Emily. Her next words were unexpected. These were the last things he heard until everything went black.

"You sure took your sweet time to get here... Caleb."

"Hmph... Go get dressed, Jacobsen. We're leaving. Who's our next target?"

"...Emmanuelle Pichon."

All of this seemed like a dream.

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments** : Aaaand another one bites the dust. To be honest, I don't feel that bad about Blitz, as I did about Twitch, because while he's a fun operator to play as, he's a frigging nightmare to play _against_. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter. I tried my best to write a decent sex scene: not too detailed because I didn't want it to take away from the rest of the chapter. Work on the next one is already underway, so hopefully I can release it early next month (personal challenge is to release two chapters). Cheers! :)


	16. Chapter 15 - The Face of the Enemy

**Update (6/20/2018):** I made several edits to this chapter, particularly in the last part, because I overlooked some spelling errors and problems in pacing. Should be fine now, at least as far as I could tell.

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen - "The Face of the Enemy"**

* * *

…

She was all alone. The poisonous yellow smoke was everywhere, clinging to the grass, the walls, and the warm concrete. The mission was to locate any survivors from the terrorist attack, no matter how remote the possibility might be. But she pressed on, even as her gas mask made it difficult to see. She donned a bulky, grey NBC suit that shielded her from the environment. She searched until she stepped on a piece of shattered glass, and realized that it was a cellphone held by a limp hand. It was a girl in a maroon sweater, bearing a youthful face, barely taking any breath.

"Hold on! I'll get you out of here!"

She took the young woman's body and hoisted it across her back. She kept a firm hand on her trusted FAMAS and scanned for targets beyond the noxious mist. Seeing none, she made haste to reach the rendezvous point. The weight of the girl didn't hinder her. She wanted to save as many lives as possible.

But in her own rashness, she tripped on a rock that she should've seen. She fell flat in her belly, sending the body of the girl away from her shoulders, disappearing into the smoke. The soldier berated herself and started looking for her. All seemed hopeless. A few minutes went by when all of a sudden, a hand grabbed her right arm from behind. It was a monstrous human, pustules protruding from its pale skin, disheveled hair swaying like thorny vines. It was wearing the girl's sweater. It was wheezing and weeping blood, prompting the other woman to raise her rifle. For some reason, the firing chamber was empty.

*click*

And just like before, a piece of cold metal suddenly touched the nape of her neck. It was sharp and reeked of cordite. It was a firearm.

 _Not this time!_

She delivered a quick elbow to whoever was holding her at gunpoint. Unfortunately, she wasn't fast enough. The strike had only deflected the weapon's trajectory ever so slightly, which still managed to unload its deadly cargo. To her horror, the bullet careened towards her, giving her no option but to brace for the inevitable impact. She winced and yelped when it tore into her shoulder blade, drilling deep into muscle and bone, and escaping through her left clavicle. Blood squirted as she fell into the ground, writhing. It was an incredible surge of pain, bringing fire to all of her nerves. It was a miracle she did not pass out. In one last act of defiance, she brought her rifle to bear with one hand and pulled the trigger again.

*Bang!*

This time, the weapon worked. The dark figure behind her gasped and dissipated, causing it to vanish into the yellow mist, never to be seen again. Not missing a beat, she turned around and faced the other monster, who was raring to rend her throat with its sharp claws. She didn't waver. She stared deep into its crimson eyes and sharp fangs, firing off a few more shots into the fiend. The bullets hit their mark, producing splotches of filthy blood and a hellish screech. The monster lay dead, but the soldier wasn't satisfied. She pulled the trigger yet again, making sure to aim for its head.

"Go to hell!", she yelled.

One more shot ensured that the soulless fiend was down for good. Then, the soldier collapsed on the misty ground, gasping for breath and clutching the wound so close to her chest. Just like that, she was alone once more.

The pain was intense, like someone had just hit her square in the torso with a sledgehammer. Her first instinct was to use her radio, but the gas mask muffled her words, molding them into pained breaths instead. She couldn't call for help. Tears started to form in her eyes out of helplessness, but she forced them away. Weeping at the mercy of Death was essentially admitting defeat. She didn't want to go. She still had a job to do. She still had people waiting back home: friends and family that deserve to see her alive once more. She prayed for a miracle.

She didn't have to wait long.

"Twitch? Twitch!"

The voice was from a man, a familiar one. She looked to her left, and her green eyes were met with the most welcome sight. It was another soldier, clad in the same suit as hers, wearing the same gas mask, rushing to her aid. When he knelt beside her, she looked into the transparent glass and saw a friendly visage, rugged but sincere. Quite handsome too. He had a worried looked on his face, grey eyes no doubt filled with panic. Little did he know that his fears were unfounded. This woman had not yet given up; she just needed another hand. Perhaps a medkit too, but that could be arranged later.

"Ace?", she called his name, albeit weakly. "What… what took you so long…?"

"Hold on. I'll get you out of here."

He wrapped the sling of her rifle across his body, carrying it for her. Then, he scooped her up in his arms, cradling her legs under one hand and supporting her back with the other. He grunted as he hoisted her; the added weight on his person proved to be a lot more than he anticipated. But he didn't complain. With swift and strong legs, he started to make his way out of the scene of carnage. He ignored any danger that might be waiting for them in the yellow mist.

"Valkyrie, this is Alpha-Two. Are you receiving?", he spoke into his radio. "We have an Operator down. Alpha-Three's been hit."

She looked at her comrade in astonishment. The pain in her wound slowly gave way to a warm, gentle feeling. That of peace, calm, and safety. If she only had the strength to reach her hand out, she would touch his cheek and thank him. Her savior. For a second time, she fought off the tears in her eyes, as it was unbecoming a professional such as herself. She held on long enough until she saw a bright light in the distance, inching itself ever closer. There seemed to be a cutting sound of rotor blades, spinning in the heavens, barely concealed by the yellow mist. It was salvation.

It was strange, too. The dream was not supposed to play out this way, but somehow it did. She liked the change. She wanted to continue...

…

"Uhh…"

Her eyes opened for themselves. Everything was a blur. She saw what seemed to be a beige wall and a white light. She could sense the faint smell of antiseptics. To her right was the quiet humming of a gentle breeze. To her left was a monotonous beeping, spaced between even intervals. Perhaps that of a machine…

…

* * *

Brooke Army Medical Center, Fort Sam Houston, Texas  
1540 hours

Day 18 (Three days before Freedom Day)

…

...And just like that, the warmth was gone, replaced by a strong chill that wrapped her entire body. Emma blinked her eyes again to prove if she was really awake. She realized that she was in bed, covered in a white blanket, her body rested in an incline- not the most comfortable of postures. She gritted her teeth to mumble a word, but only her breath escaped. Failing that, she tried to lift herself up and gain her bearings. But her body didn't budge, even after exerting a little effort. Everything about her felt weak and frozen. Whatever vigor she enjoyed in her sleep was just a mere fantasy, vanishing alongside her pleasant dream.

"Uhh… Dammit…", she cursed.

"Twitch!", a woman called her name. "Twitch, can you hear me?"

She heard a chair suddenly cast aside. Emma looked at the source of the voice, but her vision was still a messy, smudged picture. She could tell that a humanoid figure just hovered above her, bearing features that were as familiar to her as to anyone else. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. This lady was wearing a purple sweater and a pair of jeans. From the tone of her heavily-accented voice, she was surprised and elated to see her roused from the slumber.

"…Ice Queen? What are you doing here?", she called to the visitor.

For some reason, the first thing she thought was Monika's most hated nickname. Normally, there would be a quick rebuttal from the taciturn lady, but she didn't seem to mind the harmless jab.

"Oh, thank goodness you're awake. The doctors said your vitals were improving, so Six sent me to check on you… How do you feel?"

"Ugh... I'm stiff all over… where… Where am I?"

Emma looked around a second time, as her eyesight was slowly returning to normal. The beige wall was actually a grid of tiles were hanging from the ceiling. The bright light was from a florescent lamp, shining proudly. The faint breeze was from the air conditioning mounted on the wall. The slow and successive beeps were from a heart monitor, showing clear signs of life. The young woman's mind tried to process all of the details, but her own thoughts were slow and fleeting. It was a sign pointing at some sort of medicine coursing through her veins, perhaps painkillers.

"You're in a military hospital. In Texas.", Monika replied.

"Texas?"

And all this time, Emma didn't realize that her mouth was covered by a translucent breathing mask, perhaps mirroring the obnoxious face covering from her dream. She wanted to take it off, but her brain insisted on otherwise. True enough, when she tried to fill her lungs with air, she felt a mild yet coarse wave of pain within her chest. Almost as if they were on fire not too long ago.

Suddenly, the dream made a lot more sense that it should.

"No. Take it easy, dear...", Monika advised her. "…You were exposed to Compound Z. Your body has barely started to heal yet…"

"R-Really? How bad was it? …How long was I out…?"

"*sigh* They had to perform an experimental treatment to save your life. You've been comatose for three days."

"Three… days?!"

The gravity of the situation didn't dawn on her fully. Instead, she turned her eyes to the large bandage just above her left breast. There was a huge splotch of red on top of the cloth, and an ugly one at that. But what really gave her pause was the lack of sensation she had over that area of flesh. No tickling feeling, not even the touch of her medical gown's fabric. Rather, there was a tang of aching and throbbing, running deep. It was a gunshot wound, similar to the dream. Her mind struggled between screaming in terror and scoffing at the stupid coincidence. Only scant details remained in her memory: a rooftop, a bright mist, Redmond, Oregon. The last thing she could remember was something sharp and solid hitting her vest.

It was so surreal how close she came into meeting her Maker. While Emma pondered about her survival, Monika quickly left her side and went straight for the door. She opened it halfway and spoke to someone out of view, probably a nurse down the hall, then made her way back to the bed. The patient was eager to continue the chat, but her friend had other plans. The blonde woman wore a mixed expression of relief, anxiety, and sorrow on her face. As if she had been for hours, way before the dream ended. Heeding her intuition, Emma tried to cheer her up.

"Hey, is this place covered by our health card?", she joked. "…I don't want Six to foot me the bill once I'm out of here."

Instead of laughing, Monika leaned forward and pulled something out of her jeans' back pocket.

"Take this."

The glimmering shape was easily recognizable. A metallic cylinder for six chambers. Ergonomic, wooden grips for easy handling. A double-action system allowing for rapid, follow up shots. Illuminated iron sights for snap-aiming and quick target acquisition. A 'girl's best friend'. And it was loaded too.

"Oh, cool!", she accepted the revolver. "…Wait. Why are you-"

"Listen, Emmanuelle.", the other woman leaned forward even more, this time closer to her ear. "I'll stay here with you for as long as we can. We've posted guards outside to watch over you…"

Then she directed her attention to the gun.

"…But you have to keep _that_ , just in case. Hide that under your pillow."

"Why? What's going on, Monika?"

"Something happened while you were out. We… we were hit hard…"

"Huh?"

Monika looked saddened. An incredibly rare show of emotion from the illustrious Ice Queen, it hinted at something terrible.

"Oh, where do I start... Baker sent a team to France yesterday. The DGGN gave us intel on a possible security threat, but... But it was a trap..."

"What?"

"...Elias, he… was…", Monika's voice broke. "…There was a bomb… And he tried to save the others… but he…"

Her eyes tried their damnedest to fight off the tears. They failed. Emma couldn't help but share in the sorrow, ever the empath. She reminded herself not to cry, but it was quite a challenge when her heart started to break.

"No. No, no …Is he alive?"

"Barely. They're *sniff* patching him up in England, and… and then, there's the new guy…"

"Ethan?!"

Monika quickly wiped her tears away, and looked at her friend straight in the eyes. Surprisingly, there was nary a hint of sadness in them. The name had definitely caught her attention.

"He's been missing since last night…", the German lady continued. "We couldn't find him..."

"Wait… No. W-What do you mean you couldn't find him?!"

"Meghan's been trying to raise him since yesterday, but he's not answering… No messages, no emails... We think he's been kidnapped. Or worse."

A gasp escaped from the young Frenchwoman's lips, masked by the breathing apparatus. The heart monitor started to beep incessantly, indicating a sudden uptick in her pulse. Monika was taken aback by the sudden reaction and she immediately bid the Frenchwoman to calm down. The anxiety would only worsen her condition.

Not that Emma cared for any of it. She felt her strength slowly return, giving her a fleeting sense of vigor, despite the chemicals in her system bringing her down. She _wanted_ her strength to return. She wanted to tear off the medical stuff sticking out of her body and force herself from bed. To hell with the sucking chest wound, the faulty lungs, or whatever warning her body was telling her. Intuition told her enough: Rainbow was under attack. More importantly, a close friend of hers was in dire need of her help. He was out there, somewhere, in great peril…

Somewhere…

…

* * *

Location: Unknown  
Time: Unknown

...

This was perhaps the longest time that Ethan had stared into the pitch blackness. It could've been hours, days, or weeks. His other senses kept working in the meantime, but they took in all kinds of stimuli that made no sense. Like he was in a dream, only there was no image to grace his sleeping eyes. But he _knew_ he wasn't slumbering. His last memory was that of something sharp sticking into his neck. Then everything went blank. His brain rebooted after a time, but now it felt like it was being split open. His hands and feet felt unusually numb. The more he felt sensation in his body, the more he was constricted by it. One noise that he could recognize was a faint whirring of gears. Like he was in a tool shop or something.

This was not the first time he visited this dark, lightless void. Not too long ago, in what was supposed to be his last mission somewhere in the world, a bomb exploded just a few meters from where he and his best friend were standing. The sudden, violent shockwave, let alone the smoldering pieces of shrapnel, passed through his body and rattled his insides. The unbearable pain was enough for him to slip into oblivion. Back then, he was only woken up by frantic radio calls and a gentle voice. Now, none of those were there to help him out. From what he could tell, this time he was probably dead for real. The darkness was already his reward.

Then he heard footsteps approach.

"Hey.", a man snapped a finger close to his ear. "Wake up."

"Nhhh..."

"I said, wake up!"

In the next moment, Ethan's head was suddenly bathed in a stream of cold, bone-chilling liquid. Water. It brought light to his half-closed eyes and caused them to flicker back into reality. He gasped for air as the water started to seep into his nostrils, threatening to drown him. He gagged and coughed until the liquid stopped; it was literally a rude awakening. When he opened his eyes, they were immediately graced by a bright lamp, so painful to look at. There were blurry figures everywhere as well. Big machines, turning wheels, and flickering lights. He took a second to let his retinas adjust.

"Rise and shine, lover-boy.", the man spoke again.

A quick look at himself, Ethan realized that he was still wearing his white long-sleeves and black trousers. His socks were still on, but they were soggy and damp. None of his clothes were clean. The room around him was covered in a drab greyish color, metallic and cold. His hands and legs were tied by plasticuffs, which themselves were fixed into a steel chair. He started to sift through his memories again, in an attempt to recount the last events that led him to his current predicament. Sadly, everything was now a blur.

There was a faded figure standing in front of him. But as his vision slowly came to, Ethan recognized a lot of the man's features, things he swore he had seen before. Brown-ish skin and black hair, plus a rather sizable beard where a chin curtain used to be. He stood at a good five feet, nine or ten inches tall. He donned a grey hoodie with crimson highlights and a pair of camouflaged pants. His dark eyes reeked of perverse glee and a sense of superiority. On either side of him were two other nondescript goons wearing white ballistics masks, with rifles shouldered. Adding the two and two together brought about a startling realization that the caused the prisoner to feel a glimmer of dread.

The man in front of him was a former toxicologist for the Department of Homeland Security. The suspected mastermind of the attack on Bartlett University. A leading figure of the White Masks, and a Priority One target for Team Rainbow.

"…Adam Kipper…", Ethan muttered.

"Ah, so your brain's still working. Good. I thought you OD'd from the tranqs we gave you."

"…Where am I?", he demanded to know. "Why are you here?"

*Smack!*

Adam's reply was a solid punch to Ethan's right cheek, bringing his senses back to life if they weren't already. Fortunately the stinging pain was abrupt. though it didn't improve his situation. For a moment, he was in utter disbelief that he was suddenly at this scumbag's mercy. One night in a Downtown hotel and he was suddenly a captive when he woke up? The confusion gave way to a glimmer of rage. Basic training kicked in. His next thought was to tackle the man and trap him in a leg lock, then beat him half to death. He clenched his fists to retaliate, but alas the cuffs had effectively subdued him.

"Oh yeah! Phew! …You have noooo idea how long I've waited to do that!", Adam gloated. "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"

Not that it intimidated the prisoner.

"Like yourself? You hit like a girl..."

"Is that right?"

*Smack!*

Another blow to the cheek, strong enough gash Ethan's skin and leave behind a black spot, trickling with droplets of blood. This only fueled his anger even more, gritting his teeth out of spite. Of course, the captor didn't let him a moment's respite. Rather than let his prisoner recover, he clutched a handful of the poor man's hair, yanking his head and forcing him to look eye-to-eye.

"You're not gonna walk out of this in one piece, you know? If I were you, I'll find a way to make this less painful."

"Fuck you. If you're gonna kill me, just get it over with."

"What, you think it'll be that easy? I'll have some fun with you first!"

And with that, Adam reared and delivered another left hook, this time striking into Ethan's gut. He didn't have enough time to brace for the blow and he felt his insides to briefly whirl in a sea of pain. He coughed as he tried to recover, but his captor punched him again in the face. Then another. And another. The visceral impacts resounded in the tiny room, as knuckles met with unguarded flesh and blood began to stain the white long sleeves. Adam was by no means a strong fighter, but anyone could do a number to a spec ops guy if he was properly restrained. This bastard certainly did his homework with much gusto.

This was the man's revenge for what was done to him, all those months ago in the Middle East, in the hands of American Special Forces. From what fleeting glances that Ethan could do in between the blows, it looked like Adam was enjoying every second of hurting him.

"Ain't so tough now, aren't ya?!"

"Up yours."

"Tsk. You're lucky I can't kill you right now… Tell us where the rest of your team is, and I'll promise to let you go with a limp."

So that was the purpose of all this: an interrogation.

"Kiss my ass!"

*Smack!*

Ethan was starting to get dizzied by the punches, but he held firm. Rather than focus on the pain, he instead thought about Adam, imagining a pair of crosshairs between his eyes where a rifle bullet should be. It felt strange to hear him speak in an American accent, and not the well-rehearsed Arabic that he presented himself with not too long ago. But it just went on to show how much of a lying, sleazy bastard he really was. And like others of his kind, he would take advantage of every opportunity he could to hurt a stronger opponent with impunity. A few more blows here and there, and soon they would make a dent in his constitution. Rather than be intimidated, Ethan remained defiant and looked at his enemies with killer intent. If only a death glare could actually take someone's life.

He would never rat on his friends. Adam took a while to notice this too and stopped punching him. He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Come on… be a smart man and start singing right now, Mallory. You know it'll only go downhill from here."

"If you're _half a man_ , you won't beat up someone who can't fight back.", Ethan taunted. "But that'll be expecting too much from you. Traitor."

"Traitor? Hahaha! Oh boy..."

Adam leaned forward and smiled, even more mockingly.

"…Don't you see we're doing Uncle Sam a favor here? How else are you gonna know your weaknesses if nobody's there to test 'em? …These guys hired me to do just that. Luckily they pay really, really well."

"Working with terrorists for money? You're even more pathetic than I thought!"

"Pfft. It's called a 'contract'. Like, how the modern world works nowadays? Like what _you had_ with the CIA once…"

Such a blood-boiling statement. The insane logic of sociopaths would infuriate any decent human being. But what sent Ethan over the edge was this bastard's blatant acknowledgement of his role. This was the man responsible for killing dozens of college kids in Bartlett. The guy who also created the chemical bomb that devastated the siege in Redmond. The one that Emma nearly died from. And there's no doubt that Adam Kipper's list of sins went much longer than those. Ethan could barely hide his fury as he struggled to stand up from his seat, raising his voice in utter defiance.

"Don't compare me to you, you piece of shit! We're NOTHING alike!"

"Really? I get paid to do stuff, you get paid to do stuff… Last I heard, you joined Rainbow because the Army's pay grade wasn't enough... Who's the pathetic money-grubber now?"

And then he was stunned, humbled. His eyes were left wide at the sudden revelation, which the other man found infinitely amusing. There was no way that Adam could've known what he just said.

"Hah! She was right! You 'hero-types' are all a bunch of hypocrites when it comes down to it, Mallory…"

 _She?_

"…Come on. Let's go meet your friend. Maybe she can get you to talk..."

Seemingly having had his fill of fun, Adam motioned to his henchmen, who promptly went to the prisoner's side. They took him off his chair and retied the cuffs to his back, painfully. They didn't have gentle hands. Ethan wanted to fight them and free himself, but his brain kept telling him it was not a good idea. True enough, he didn't realize that a couple of guns were trained on him the whole time. A couple more masked henchmen had entered the room, brandishing 552 Commandos with laser sights.

Before Ethan could protest, they placed a black bag over his face. Presumably a precaution so that he wouldn't see an opportunity for escape. Then, they ordered him to stand up by sticking their rifles' barrels to his back. He had no choice but to follow, and they led him out of the room.

The trek was rather short, which didn't give him enough time to ascertain his surroundings as best he could. But it was easier said than done in the first place, as the bag over his head had only brought him back to the darkness he was briefly freed from. He could hear the mechanical noise in the background grow louder and louder. They sounded like an engine or a motor. His feet also gave him a cold, metallic sensation. Whatever surface his socks were walking on, it was a bit slippery and frigid. Not only that, the ambient temperature seemed so low that anything would feel sharp to any exposed flesh. The air felt unbelievably chilly, like he was out in the backwoods or the lakeside in the dead of night.

Then there came a flight of stairs. Then another. Ethan tried to make sense of his bearings. The wind was blowing hard and the mechanical whirring persisted in each step he made. It was certain that he was somewhere big. Perhaps an abandoned factory or an old industrial complex. Only with something cold gracing the floors and the walls. Finding a place that fit that particular description anywhere in the world would be an impossible task for Rainbow. The hopes of getting rescued only grew slimmer and slimmer in each passing second.

From the distance, he could hear two people talking. Their voices were barely audible.

"…That's why you talked to the cops in Genoa? Unbelievable."

"We need to keep feeding them crumbs, Caleb.", a woman replied. "That's how we draw the rest of Team Rainbow out."

Caleb. That name sounded familiar. Ethan tried to recall where he heard it, but the pain in his body kept distracting him.

"…The Bossman's questioning your orders.", the man continued. "…We took the Poles out of the equation, but now you want us to lose a few more safehouses? After we lost Redmond? …And why didn't you let me kill that girl when we had the chance?"

"She is in the most heavily-guarded military hospital in America. Think you can take 'em on by yourself? You can thank 'our friend' for putting her there in the first place."

…

 _No, no, no._

The woman's voice was soft and gentle. Before Ethan could gasp in surprise, the men behind him ordered to halt.

"Speak of the devil.", Caleb spoke. "What are you doing here, Adam?"

"Good evening. Our resident fuck-boy has just woken up."

The goons removed the bag on Ethan's head. Again, he blinked his eyes to ease the pain from the bright light. The next room he found himself in was sort of an office. The carpeted floor was covered in ice, as did the cream-colored walls. The desk was filled with documents and papers, as did the shelves and filing cabinets. At the backdrop was a rather large map of the world, with a lot of circles, arrows, and lines strewn about everywhere. Brass tacks were stuck with notes, markings that would probably make more sense with a closer look.

What really caught his attention was the person standing beside the desk. He could hardly believe it. There she was: Case Officer Emily Jacobsen.

Auburn hair, tied into a bun, and a pair of blue eyes that matched the coldness around him. Gone were the low-cut dress and fancy jewels; she donned a white military-style fleece and a pair of winter-camouflaged fatigues. Tactical webbing and ammo pouches all over her person, like she was geared for war. She didn't have a weapon, save for the Beretta tucked into her pistol holster. Ethan had seen her in a similar getup before. But she was a friend then. The events of the last night had started to return. And there was no other way to explain why she was mingling with these psychos.

"Emily…?"

"Hello, Ethan."

Her lips turned into a slight grin. Not a mocking one, like what Adam showed him, but something genuine and sincere. Perhaps a hint of sadness, too. She might have felt some sort of concern, at least, seeing him bloodied and groggy.

Beside her was a grim-looking man with a bare head, hands in his trouser pockets. Taciturn features on his pale skin and a cold, lifeless glare on his eyes. Ethan instantly recognized him: the man wearing the hotel staff's uniform. This time, he had traded his flimsy disguise for a similar outfit of whites and greys. But unlike Emily, this man was carrying a large rifle across his shoulders. The fingerless Kevlar gloves pointed at a military background.

"Why did you take him here, Adam?", Emily asked the captor. "Did he talk?"

"Not yet. Just wanna ask your permission to let me deal with him using _my_ way."

"No. Conventional methods first. Nothing invasive, or else we'll fuck up his mind…"

"Sure, sure. It's your boat."

Ethan was speechless. He could hardly recognize the woman in front of him- a stranger wearing a familiar face. Her overall demeanor was different, yet well-known to him at the same time. It belonged to a ruthless individual, interrogating unlucky prisoners either by talking them death or holding them at gunpoint. Something that a CIA agent would have. He used to work with such a person, seeing her work firsthand. But to be standing here on the receiving end of it, arms bound and in her presence, was an unbelievable stroke of fate. And to hear her speak damning words were only the beginning of a much harsher revelation.

"…I assume the rest of the Compound Z has been delivered?", Emily asked. "I didn't hear anything from Langley's end."

"Yeah. Our people in Nagoya just confirmed the package… The Navy's picking up the slack from our friends in Hong Kong. Everything's now set."

 _Navy? Hong Kong?_

"Good…", she muttered.

"Uh, listen… about what I said about re-negotiating our deal? Yeah, we can shelve that for later..."

All eyes suddenly were suddenly turned to Adam. He seemed overly confident to be spouting those words, which seemingly struck a chord with the others in the room. But it was typical from anyone with unhealthy amounts of pride in their hearts.

"...I-I didn't mean to be so pushy!", he continued. "Working in this place has really been fucking hard you know?"

Emily looked at Adam with a stoic glare, as if to size him up. To think that barely a year ago, this woman was forcefully squeezing answers from the traitorous American. It was unbelievable to see these two supposed-enemies get along so well. But then she scoffed at him.

"Sure. I understand."

"Oh good! That means we're cool, right?"

She took a few more steps closer to him before she replied.

"Sorry, Mr. Kipper. But we're gonna be cool until you've done everything we want you to do…"

"Okay, so there's more? Sure, I'm up for it."

Ethan didn't understand what they were talking about. But before he could demand answers from them, a pair of arms suddenly lunged at Adam from behind, wrapping around his jacket's collar. One arm began to squeeze and constrict his neck, while the other exerted force into his head. A choke hold.

"Mmmf! Hgmmmfghhf!"

"Shhh… Don't fight it, Adam. Let it go. Let it go..."

The savage attack was from this Caleb-fellow, who snuck into position while Adam and Emily conversed. It was as confusing as it was visceral. The brown-skinned man switched between flailing his arms or trying to fight off the bald fellow who caught him in a death grip. Neither of his efforts worked, as his attacker didn't balk at the pathetic attempts of resistance. Disturbingly, the once-stoic facade on his face had turned into a demented look of glee in his face. As if he enjoyed choking the life out of his own comrade. Adam's henchmen didn't even stop him, and instead they looked on with uninterested eyes. They watched as their boss struggled in vain, slowly weakening, before finally stopped moving altogether. Nobody in the room flinched at the slightest.

Least of all Emily. The satisfied look on her face implied that she wanted this to happen. She stared at the unconscious man like an inanimate object. Cargo, to be specific.

"…Prep him for transport.", she ordered.

The armed men nodded and picked up their boss's own motionless body. He was not dead. Ethan was surprised to feel sympathy for the man who gave him a good clobbering not too long ago. Then again, mortal pain was nothing compared to betrayal. He suddenly had a lot more common with the terrorist-scumbag than he thought.

"…Caleb, you should go now while SatCom is blind. Everything will be ready by the time you get there…"

And with that, the bald man left the room, but not before giving the prisoner one last look of mockery. Both of them took great care to remember each other's faces, saving their strength for some future confrontation, if it would ever come. The staring contest ended abruptly when the red-haired woman spoke again.

"Ethan…"

She drew herself closer, prompting him to struggle with his restraints once more. For the first time in... perhaps ever, he was repulsed by her presence. The days they shared in the field, the time he spent in her arms out of drunken foolishness, all suddenly felt hollow. A part of him wanted to believe that seeing her here was some sort of a prank or hallucination. Not that it mattered anymore. He glared at her with the same murderous intent as he did with Adam. As much as he hated the darkness, Ethan would give anything just to return there, rather than to spend one more minute in her midst.

"What the hell's going on?", he bravely asked her with barely-held contempt.

"NSA and Homeland Security believe that Adam Kipper, 'Mohandes', is the mastermind behind everything...", Emily replied matter-of-factly. "…So, we're gonna give him to them. Sort of…"

But Ethan didn't believe it. Rather, he didn't want to.

"No... No, no... tell me this isn't real..."

"It is. I suppose I _do_ have a lot of explaining to do…"

With a frustrated sighed, Emily turned away from him and crossed her arms. This prompted the goons to drag Ethan into the room and tie him into another chair, just as before. Again, his mind entertained the thought of breaking free from the restraints and taking them all on with his fists, even if that idea was completely ludicrous. It was a good way to get himself killed. But anything was preferable than to hear this woman speak.

The more he thought about her treachery, the more he felt daggers pierce his heart. It made sense why she agreed to work with him. Perhaps to learn more about Rainbow. Perhaps to compromise the entire manhunt for the terrorist group's remnants. Whatever the end-goal was, the deception to get there undoubtedly ran deep. A textbook example of the Special Activities Division's MO, only employed against the very people they should be friends with.

 _But why?_

The answer to his most bubbling question came with a wearied sigh and heavy heart from Emily. Or so it seemed. Nothing was certain anymore.

"…Okay, where do I start? Redmond? Yeah, that one's a gamble on our part… We figured if we let you guys think that the White Masks are dead, our comrades in Europe can finally move freely… I went to Redmond to oversee everything. To make sure the FBI didn't find anything substantial. And that robbery in Los Angeles? I told Mr. Fausse about a money cache that the CIA uses for emergencies… I didn't expect the old fucker to be so giddy to get his hands on it though; it was supposed to be our Plan B…"

"…"

"…We planned to kill him if he ever went to prison because of that… But you guys gave us a better opportunity instead. Thank you."

Ethan's patience ran thin. He couldn't take it anymore.

"When?! Since when have you been LYING TO ME?!"

He asked a hard question, but Emily didn't budge. She looked unfazed and guiltless in what would be the harshest accusation anyone could give to a person with integrity. But did she ever have it in the first place. Her body language said it all. Forever gone was her friendly and cordial demeanor, replaced by the unfeeling heart of a consummate professional. A CIA agent. A heartless terrorist. In Ethan's mind, they were one and the same. Perhaps that's why he didn't suspect her of anything. He cursed at himself for ever trusting her. The pain in his body was fully replaced by anger, at least for the moment.

"Don't punish yourself, Ace…", she held his hand. "…We've been laying down the groundwork for years, even before I met you. But when the CIA found out where Adam was hiding, I knew I had to volunteer and 'capture' him…"

Ethan wanted to smack her palm aside, but he couldn't. The dawning realization came down hard.

"No. No, no.", he muttered incessantly.

"It's been _really_ hard keeping up appearances, you know?", she continued. "...Even for me. I had to make sure that Operation Witch Hunt's failure would be believable."

And the more that he listened to the truth, the more his hatred grew. The attack on the Border Control, all those months ago, suddenly occupied his head. The long delay for extraction. The lack of air support. Her suggestion to hunker down in the break room, rather than a more defensible position. The impeccable timing of the mercs, the disguises they used… The firepower they brought to bear. The bomb they used to kill his best friend…

"It was you… You… killed Gabe! And Omar! And-"

"Sergeant First Class Gabriel DeWynne. Staff Sergeant Omar Guerrero… Staff Sergeant Travis Upton, Sergeant Jeremy Wong, Sergeant Jason Stelmack, Sergeant Desmond Leggett… Robert Kemple, Michael Rountree, Beau Halloran... I know. I remember them too..."

Emily's cold expression remained the same, even as she spoke of their names as if to commemorate them. To a stranger's ears, her words would be heartfelt and honest. But for the sole survivor of that team, her words were anything but sincere.

"…Calling those mercenaries on us was one of the hardest calls I did in my life. You were all good people..."

She stared into his eyes, but he didn't want to.

"...I expected you to die as well, you know? In hindsight, maybe I should've just let you die... But I guess part of me thought that you'll be off the playing board for good after what you survived..."

"…"

"...So imagine my surprise when I heard that you were joining Rainbow... Heheh… Why is that, I wonder? Luck? Coincidence? God's will?"

"Why… Why are you doing this?!", Ethan yelled at her.

His former friend paused for a few seconds. Then, she left his side to lean on the desk behind her. The physical distance between them seemed symbolic. As if from here on out, whatever link they had with each other was gone. Forever. Emily looked away, briefly, as if to gather her thoughts. Nothing would ever justify her actions and her crimes. So, she opted to do what she did best.

"...Do you know how easy it was to smuggle Compound Z into the country? We just had to give a hundred grand to the dockmaster in Baltimore. And Customs there was so... _inept_ , that they let the trucks out without running 'em through a chemical scanner..."

She picked up a folder from the desk while she ranted. It was stamped with the seal of the Department of Homeland Security. 'Confidential'.

"...And do you know why our attack on Bartlett was so successful? You'll be amazed just how many dirty cops we have in Massachusetts. A money bag here, a favor there. And just like that..."

*finger snap*

"...We had the University's entire floor plan, _plus_ a copy of Mass State PD's patrol orders. We knew _exactly_ how long it would take for first responders to arrive that day..."

Emily returned the folder to the pile of papers, then made her way back to Ethan. She exuded a sinister aura. Nothing intimidating, as if that concept existed anymore to an ex-Delta sniper. Rather, it was the kind of presence worth vilifying. He taught himself to hate the bad guys, no matter who they were. But now, it was troubling to do it to someone he thought knew well.

"Our people are weaklings, Ethan... Bartlett wouldn't have happened if everyone simply set aside their own interests for once... We've already given them an enemy to unite against. The White Masks… But guess what? Our leaders still insist on relying on the Rainbow Program to protect its own country!"

"…"

"It's the same damn thing, wherever Uncle Sam sends us. Iraq, Afghanistan, Mexico, Korea, Russia… There has always been so much infighting on our side. So much corruption... Can you blame _me_ if I want to change all that?"

Ethan could hardly believe her words. But somehow, his mind drifted to his last few memories with her. The restaurant at Fayetteville, where she poured out her heart due to her drunken stupor. The frustrations of being a government worker were made bare on that night. And in the aftermath on the attack on Bartlett, when she visited him in Brooke Army Medical for the last time, she vented how unfair it was for the CIA to be taking all the blame. They felt like warning signs that the soldier willfully ignored.

"This was not the country my father died for...", Emily continued. "…Sure as hell not the country _I_ want to die for. But things can still turn around. They only need a little push."

"The hell you're talking about?!"

"The Enhanced Domestic Defence Act. It needs to be passed. In just a few days, anyone who opposed that bill will be converted. And our country will be stronger for it."

…

That's it? All that bloodshed, all the treachery, all the suffering they've caused… For a piece of paper? Ethan couldn't believe his ears. It was an excuse; one that he didn't buy.

"You murdered dozens of innocent people! KIDS!"

"And they're an unfortunate sacrifice. Unfortunate, but necessary... if we want our people to whip themselves back into shape."

Again, she spoke in cryptic words. Of course she would. Any fanatic would be too warped in their own damn mind to even give a damn about what others thought. It was always about themselves and their twisted agendas: the very same things that Rainbow stood against. Ethan tightened his fists. As much as his heart was crushed by the harsh truth, he found a renewed resolve to fight. He wanted to grab a gun and shoot her. It didn't matter that she used to be a colleague. Just like Adam, the blood spilled in Bartlett also stained her hands. As with those who died in Los Angeles. In Redmond. She shared in the blame for the deaths of so many good men and women, Ethan would be damned is she would ever get away with it all, scot-free.

And to his surprise, he felt something that he didn't expect to feel at this moment. Tears. Redness in his eyes that he struggled to keep it bay. They were not shed out of sorrow or of pain. Rather, he was ashamed. It was a damn shame how things happened on his watch. Ethan sifted his memories for any instance or moment where he could've turned everything around. He probably should've just killed Adam when he had the chance all those months ago, rather than follow orders. He probably should've told Emily that he sympathized with her, rather than mind his own business.

He probably should've died, like she said. At least he wouldn't have to bear witness to this grand betrayal.

"You're a good man, so I'll let you in on something…", Emily spoke again. "…The plans from Redmond I gave you were fake… Your friends are just gonna waste their time looking tough to a bunch of bureaucrats… But the Summit in New York? It is _still_ one of our targets."

"No… don't do this, Emily."

"Ethan… It's already done, I'm afraid. And the military's gonna lend us a hand. This is all just a CIA operation as far as they know. You'll see…"

She turned to the map behind her and ran a hand across its surface. As if to illustrate the scope and scale of their next move.

"...Hamburg, Abidjan, and London. Our last attacks have conditioned them very well... But after Freedom Day, an ever greater change will sweep our country. No division. No greed. No fear... Just patriots and volunteers, rising from the ashes..."

"Goddammit, do you even hear what you're saying!? You're insane!"

"If we're all insane, then why are we doing so well? Not even the 'best warriors on the planet' managed to stop us. …Is it because the damn politicians keep holding you back? …Or is it because you're all weak, like the rest? …And if our heroes are weak against strong enemies, what hope is there for our everyone?"

"…"

"But you're here now. I'm disappointed that it only took some sex to bring you down… I guess this just goes to show how truly lost we are."

"GAH!"

He tried to lunge at her from his chair, teeth gritted and hands clenched in rage. Again, the restraints held him in place. The other goons raised their rifles, ready to drop him dead but Emily turned them down. She smiled, partly to mock the prisoner's vain ferocity. But on the other hand, it seemed that she was still impressed by Ethan's defiance, even when the threat of death hovered above him. As if she didn't expect anything less from the man she too used to call as friend.

"Accept it, Ace. You lost because you failed to see the face of the enemy. _Your_ enemy."

"I'll kill you!"

"That's the spirit! Listen, for old time's sake, I promise you won't die today… I still need to find your friends in Europe.

She ignored his threat. Instead, she motioned for one of the henchmen in the room, who promptly gave her a laptop. She typed on the keyboard for a few seconds, which somehow brought a small grin on her lips. Then she glared at Ethan, her blue eyes showing a hint of menace, before she turned the laptop around to face his direction. It was disconcerting to see a pretty face act like a villain, like she genuinely enjoyed her place.

"Langley's told me that your family is on vacation in Hawaii.", she muttered. "So I settled for the next best thing…"

The screen showed a camera footage, seemingly in real-time. It was a room. There was a hospital bed in the middle, surrounded by medical equipment, occupied by a person. There was an AC unit hanging on the wall and a chair on the other side. There what seemed to be someone with golden hair, leaning forward and having a conversation with the one in bed. The screen zoomed in a little bit closer…

And at that point, Ethan's eyes widened in surprise and terror. The bed-ridden figure was a woman, her brown hair slightly disheveled, her face covered with a breathing mask. And to add to the dread, the one she was speaking to was another familiar face. Monika Weiss. Emily was satisfied with the prisoner's abject reaction, so she brought even more attention to the other worthwhile subject in the image. She took out another folder in the desk, filled with documents to sift through. She read them while the high-res monitor panned into the other woman's face, revealing her lively but worried expression.

"She's a tough, overachieving little bitch I'll give her that… 17th Engineering Parachute Regiment. GIGN Tech Ops. GIGN Rapid Response… At least ten referrals from tech companies in Sentier, Paris..."

They were Emma's credentials. The surge of fear in Ethan's heart only grew stronger as Emily continued to read. And the realization hit him hard: she knew who the Frenchwoman in Brooke Army Medical really was. She was taunting him on how easy it was to learn the truth. He should've seen her ruse from a mile away.

"...A couple dozen trophies from science and math contests all over Europe. The youngest ever to pass the GIGN Selection, wow... Hell, a fucking match-grade bullet to the chest didn't kill her…"

Then she closed the folder.

"…Your boss has an eye for talent, whoever he is. I hope he can find a replacement for her."

Those words were enough to shake him to the core. Thinking back on the last few days, Ethan realized what a grave error he had just committed. His friend's life was in danger. And he felt his strength and courage at the face of imminent death slowly ebb away.

"No! NO! I don't know where the rest of us are!"

"See, you're not a good liar. Choose your next words well, because Ms. Pichon's life will depend on them."

"NO! I swear to God! I don't know where they are!"

He grew more desperate, his heart started to pound in fright.

"Ethan… That man you saw here a while ago… Caleb? He's on a chopper to the nearest airport as we speak… Then he'll fly to San Antonio, then take a quick drive. That means he has about... mmm... 30 hours or so to reach your friend and plant a hollow-point into her forehead..."

The woman made her way towards him.

"…You know Marines, don't you? They always find a way to finish their mission... Clock's ticking."

"Emily, listen to me! PLEASE! I really don't know where they are! I DON'T-"

*Smack!*

She took out her Beretta and pistol-whipped him in the face. Unlike Adam's, her strike had more impact and felt more solid, despite her lithe figure. Perhaps it was because she _had_ military training and knew how and where to deliver the blow. Unlike the pencil-neck-turned-terrorist-for-hire who tried to hurt him earlier. Fresher blood started to drip into Ethan's clothes, staining them forever.

Or maybe because the blow had more meaning to it. Hard truths were much more difficult to swallow, after all. A proverbial dagger to the heart was a lot more painful than a hundred other wounds to the rest of the body. The strike to the face made him realize how hell-bent she was in this insane plan, and how helpless he had become. How helpless _he_ was in the face of true danger. But then, Emily relented on what she just did. Her soft voice once again felt an echo of regret and sadness, if they still had any meaning to her.

"I am truly sorry for all of this…", she muttered. "...If things had been different… I suppose it doesn't matter now..."

She turned away from him.

"…Take him back downstairs. Prep him for enhanced interrogation. Start with his legs."

And the goons did exactly that. As they untied and handled Ethan's defeated form, one of the men asked the red-haired lady.

"Ma'am. What are we gonna do with Adam?"

"Patch me through to the USS Dallas.", she replied to him. "That sub's still on station. Tell them we have one more… 'VIP' to deliver."

Ethan overheard her orders, but he didn't care enough to act on them. He didn't care about his own safety anymore. Instead, his mind was pre-occupied with Emma's well-being. She was still in the hospital, in the presence of one or two friends, and ultimately at the enemy's mercy. It was his fault that he placed her there, isolating her from the rest of Team Rainbow. She was a sitting target, with only Monika Weiss as her backup. He prayed for a miracle, for some damn way that Caleb would fail in his mission to take her life. To finish the job.

Before the masked men took the prisoner away, Emily gave him one more look.

"Goodbye, Ethan. I hope your friends will honor your memory."

It would be the last.

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** I hope this chapter made it clear Blitz is still alive and in good hands. As requested, the next chapter is gonna feature the Italian Ops. Work is already underway, so please look forward to it!


	17. Chapter 16 - Relentless

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen – "Relentless"**

* * *

Interstate-35, San Antonio, Texas  
29 hours later

…

There was nothing but black, starless skies on the horizon, beyond the car's windows. It proved just how much time had passed since Caleb stepped off from that God-forsaken place and returned to the US. For the first time in… ever, he hated carrying on with his mission. The toll that this trip had taken on his body was subtle, but nonetheless keenly felt. His eyes were heavy, his back ached a bit, and his arms were strained from all of the driving. He wanted to stall for time and rest. Instead, he lightly slapped himself to stay awake, repeating a ritual he just recently taken up. The only silver lining was the unusually light traffic he found at the I-35, which made the journey much, _much_ more bearable.

But finally, after what seemed like an eternity behind the wheel, he arrived at his destination none the worse for wear. Up ahead of him was a right turn, flanked by a row of streetlamps and road signs, herding him into the sprawling urban complex. It seemed that everyone was caught unawares. The gate pass forged by the CIA granted him unparalleled access to one of the military's most heavily-guarded facilities. As soon as he found a good place to park, he pulled the handbrake on the rented White Civic, grounding it to a permanent halt.

Brooke Army Medical Center.

There was no time to congratulate himself for yet another successful infiltration. The next thing Caleb did was to check the rear-view mirror for any roving guards in the parking area; the place was almost completely-filled with other vehicles. Seeing none, he turned the engine off and pulled out the key. Then, he reached for the black gym bag resting on the backseat, which contained his credentials and costume. A white medical coat, a matching polo shirt and pair of beige pants, plus a thin ID card. He donned them with due haste, all the while keeping his suppressed MEU.45 tucked into a hidden holster. The meager equipment was slightly disappointing: there was no bulletproof vest to protect himself with, no M40 sniper rifle to do the deed from his comfort zone, and no white balaclava to hide his identity.

With a weary sigh, he gulped down the last drops from the energy drink in the cup holder, which he bought at a gas station a while ago. Not that it helped him, mind, as he was still feeling a little bit woozy. He berated himself for being so weak. The multiple pit stops and over-careful prepping might have been a bad idea, but Jacobsen insisted that they were necessary to cover his tracks. After all, not even their most effective spy could guarantee that her CIA-buddies wouldn't be onto him for long. After tidying up his disguise, Caleb mustered extra strength to fight off fatigue, then looked at the mirror again for a final safety check. The coast was clear. And with that, he left the vehicle with a confident stride, masking the weariness in his body, once again pretending to be a different person for the umpteenth time.

There had been no radio updates from the guys up north. This only meant that the prisoner refused to talk. Tonight's mission, therefore, was a go.

 _Okay, time to find that girl..._

The target had brown hair, a small body build, and was five feet, six or seven inches tall. She was in the Recovery Ward, which was quite some ways from the parking area. Ergo, a fifteen-minute walk through the lobby and several security checkpoints. But at least the target's description would narrow down Caleb's search. Not only that, he had a significant advantage for the mission: he knew this place rather well. Several years ago, when he was rotated out of Fallujah, he underwent surgery at BAMC for the wounds he received from that brush with death. Wasn't the first time that a Marine had to recuperate at an Army base, but the experience was bizarre to say the least. The doctors here treated him like any other combat casualty, blissfully unaware of the future-infamous figure they had at the operating table at the time. There was this nice, elderly therapist who helped him cope with his recovery. Caleb thought it'd be a great idea to emulate his aura, to work on the disguise better.

He soon got his chance at the entrance to the hospital lobby. It was manned by a pair of young men, donning Army fatigues and caps, with 'MP' marked on their sleeves.

"ID please."

Caleb replied by bringing out his card, smiling all the way. Tonight, he was a medical technician assigned to the BAMC's Northern Wing, with a nameplate and security clearance to prove it. If the 'mop pusher' didn't buy the rouse, he would just add something else to the story. Hopefully, the talking would be brief, as there were quite a handful of people up and about even at this hour, much to the assassin's silent consternation. The 24/7 security advertised in the facility was no joke: the guards were as alert and armed in the wee hours as they would be in the day. Security cameras and electronic sensors were also plain to see.

Fortunately, things went as well as Jacobsen said they would. The guard called to his radio and asked for verification, while the other one patted Caleb for weapons. The kid somehow didn't feel the double-padded holster woven into the bald man's white coat, as did the sensors by the double-doors. After a few seconds, the other guard returned the ID. The redhead had actually done it: use the CIA Special Activities Division to tamper with the hospital's security system. It was a ludicrous idea on paper, so to behold its actual success was quite unexpected.

"Hey, I haven't seen you here before…", one of the guards tried to make small talk. "…Just got transferred?"

It was time to play the actor, adopt a ridiculous Southern accent.

"Yep. Somethin' like that."

"You picked a bad time for a new assignment, pal. Things have been hectic in this place lately."

"Ya don't say?"

"Yeah, after Redmond. Shit, we have a blonde chick from GSG 9 bunking 'round the North Wing since yesterday. Official business I think; she looked kinda cross."

"A German you say? Is she hot?", Caleb smiled, pretending to be a lecher.

"Hah! Best pair of ass-cheeks I've seen, bro! Wouldn't mind giving 'em a wiggle myself."

"Well goddamn, maybe I'll get lucky 'n bump into her!"

"Hey, keep your hands to yourself.", the other MP lectured. "She's a guest, so max respect."

"Heh. Yeah right…"

He exchanged laughs with the guards, then made haste to end the conversation, all the while mentally berating himself for putting out quite a stupid show. That said, he noted a crucial piece of information. 'Blonde chick from GSG 9' only pointed to one character: Monika Weiss. Team Rainbow's electronic engineer, assault specialist, and tonight's secondary target. It appeared that she was still in the premises, at least according to the two buffoons.

As he passed through the security gate with a fake smile, Caleb made eye contact with the receptionist at the lobby, who promptly greeted him with a smirk. So far so good; more civvies were being duped by the masquerade. He glanced at the hi-def TV, which was playing a late night TV show, before making his way to the elevator doors. It was time to head to the Northern Wing. He was tempted with complacency, what with the disguise working so flawlessly and all, but the bald man had enough sense not to fuck around. He wanted to get this mission over with as quickly and cleanly as possible.

The reason for the haste was simple: up close, covert killing was never his style. Talking to people, pretending to be someone else, and blending in with the crowd. He'd rather not be a goddamn super sleuth, since he much preferred taking lives with a well-aimed bullet from afar. At least then, he could put his training into good use. At least then, he could say to himself that all those years in the Corps weren't wasted. Reflecting on himself, it was clear that the young man once filled with ideals and vigor was truly no more, chewed on and spat out by the people he believed in. All that mattered to him now was upholding the wishes of the man who gave him purpose again. There was nothing else to it. And at the moment, his purpose was to kill a young woman, recuperating somewhere in this place.

Another poor soul to be added to his tally.

After emerging from the elevator, Caleb continued his stroll until he finally reached the Recovery Ward: a white, sterile, industrial-like corridor lined with security doors and large glass panes. He took a few seconds to reconnoiter. Activity was rather sparse as compared with the rest of the hospital. A few CCTV cameras were installed at strategic places, panning left to right, ever vigilant against suspicious activity. According to Jacobsen's intel, this 'Emmanuelle Pichon' was confined at the furthest room at the hall, the entrance to which was guarded by a couple of sentries. Plus, possibly one or two more Team Rainbow operatives. It didn't take long for the bald man to find the spot that matched this description.

But just about then, he stopped himself from taking another step, as if out of reflex. He picked up his cellphone, pretending to text a message while he stole glances ahead to observe his destination. The sentries were quite menacing and formidable: Army MPs cradling M4 rifles. Going through them would be a lot harder than the guards in the lobby entrance. At first, Caleb contemplated about taking a direct approach: kill the guards and the target, then flee the scene like a smooth criminal. However, doing so would more likely raise an alarm, perhaps get him ventilated during the escape as well. Sneaking into the room from a different angle was also possible, but that meant climbing out of a window and shimmying across, gravely exposing himself and burning away precious few seconds in the process. Thus, the best approach was to walk up to the guards and show his ID, as per the usual. That plan would go to shit if Ms. Monika Weiss suddenly showed up, however...

 _Dammit…_

Caleb could feel his heart beat quicker, recognizing an unwelcome portent. Jacobsen was surely not exaggerating when she said that this op was probably a lot more than he could handle. The level of security he encountered at the Ward was a lot more than neither he or that CIA-bitch had anticipated. Funny- it felt like she purposely left out a few key details that would no doubt compromise his escape plan, just to mess with him. Even then, he should've known that this op wouldn't be as 'clean' as Los Angeles and Redmond. He needed to trust that woman: if she said that she would take care of everything for him, then surely she already made arrangements to help him walk out of this situation in one piece.

To his surprise, the absence of a concrete answer had caused him to doubt himself. The prospect of capture or death was a lot more apparent now. If something went wrong and he got taken out tonight, would it had been all worth it? All the deaths and grief he caused, all the sacrifices he had made, all the suffering he endured just to find purpose? Should he succeed in killing Ms. Pichon, he would be another fugitive, perhaps second in infamy to the late Leonard Fausse. And should he fail, there would be nothing but a cold grave waiting for him in some goddamn backwoods, un-mourned and unremembered.

"Ah, fuck it…", he muttered under his breath.

At the very least, the spiteful bastard, Adam, was no longer around to reap the fruits of _his_ labor. It would not be a bad consolation prize. Caleb decided to go for it, mustering a second wind of courage, and lightly slapping himself a second time to ensure his senses were alive. He made his way to the sentries, ready to pull out his credentials again. As expected, one of them raised a hand and ordered him to stop.

"Hold it, sir. ID?"

"Here ya go, officer.", he replied, again pretending to be the jovial man that he was not.

The same routine as before: one guard calling his superior and another patting the new visitor for any suspicious item on his person. Caleb had no idea what awaited him on the other side. The glass pane that normally gave a view into the room was covered by a large, grey shroud. He didn't know what the room's layout was, where the target was situated, and, more importantly, what kind of acoustics did the walls possess. The last bit was of greater concern to him than the rest, because even a suppressed firearm would ring loudly inside a poorly-muffled room. If that was the case here, then taking out Pichon would alert the two MPs, cause them barge into the room and open fire at him. If that was the case, then he'd probably just strangle her, or cut off her life support, or some other shit…

"Okay. Head on in, sir.", the guard returned his ID.

"Thanks. Is Ms. Weiss inside?"

"In the ladies' room. She'll be back in a while."

"Oh. My supervisor told me to meet with her.", Caleb shrugged.

"Eh, you can wait for her inside."

Just his luck. As the door was unlocked, the disguised assassin imagined bullet holes in the sentries' foreheads. A handy reference for when the need to eliminate them after Pichon's death would arise. With another faux smile, Caleb let himself inside the room. Immediately, he noticed the strong stench of chemicals, emanating from a nearby medical tray. Antiseptics, perhaps. Acting naturally, he pulled out a medical mask from his back pocket and covered his nose. With deft, silent hands, he blocked the door behind him with a chair, ensuring that nobody would interrupt his work.

The area he found himself in was rather wide, with an A/C humming overhead, a window on the other side, and all sorts of medical equipment flanking a single, occupied bed. Like the guards said, Monika Weiss was not around, nor were there any other Rainbow trooper nearby. So, this op boiled down to just two targets.

 _Found you._

And there she was, right where he expected her to be. Female, brown hair, small body build... boxes were checked off in Caleb's head to confirm the target. 'Patient Number 110706-040147; E. P.' went the medical file that was clipped onto the bed. Her eyes were closed. Her body was motionless. Her faint breathing was masked by the heart monitor, ticking audibly in regular intervals. She seemed fast asleep.

A closer look at her still form revealed something that brought a smile to the man. There was a large, bloody bandage covering her chest, reaching her left collarbone. It looked like a gunshot wound. For a while, it meant nothing to Caleb, until an epiphany came to his throbbing head. He remembered that he shot someone in the same manner, during the Siege in Redmond. After the explosion that leveled the Compound's meeting hall, after he hid in the dormitories, and after he fended off the cops trying to get into the main building through the roof. _She was one of them_. The memory was still fresh in his mind: a figure climbing out of a window to hop into the roof, using a large wooden beam as a makeshift bridge. Caleb trained his cross-hairs into the target with no second thought. Just as other cops were about to head out and follow their comrade, Caleb pulled the trigger. It was a clean, center-mass hit, causing the target to fall into the window...

To think that Ms. Pichon bore the same wound, it only meant that tonight was a fated encounter. The sniper paying his victim a quick visit, ready to finish the job. Such an incredible coincidence. If there was really a God, then surely He set up this entire situation, just for the laughs.

Back to the task at hand. Now would be the perfect time to kill the girl on the bed, as she was isolated from her guards and left vulnerable inside an enclosed room. A sitting duck. Just as he was about to pull out his gun, Caleb realized that his earlier qualms about the room had turned out to be true. The walls were, in fact, _not_ lined with sound-absorbent material. A silenced .45 handgun would therefore reverberate throughout the area, attracting the attention of the guards outside. Worse, the window that Caleb could use for a quick getaway was sealed shut, as if purposely so to prevent break-ins. The only way out was through the same door he used earlier. And if he chose that path, he would have to bullshit his way to freedom, maybe even pray that the guards wouldn't notice the dead body in the room he just left.

Cursing in his mind, he scanned his surroundings again, thinking on his feet. The situation demanded he improvise. He needed a way to neutralize his target with none of her guards noticing or hearing it. Time was also scarce, since Ms. Weiss would probably be on her way back from the bathroom. Caleb sorely wanted to come for her too, but Jacobsen insisted that the Frenchwoman would die first tonight. His eyes continued to search the room, until he caught a glimpse at the laundry cabinet. It was filled with extra blankets and pillows. An idea came to mind: he could use one of the latter to smother the target, then cap her in the head right there.

Plant the pillow to her face, put extra force to prevent her from struggling, press the muzzle into the fabric as far as he could, then pull the trigger. He should watch for the blowback of blood and gore, as how these things usually devolve into. But yes, the idea seemed to be a good one...

*click*

Caleb was halted by a faint, metallic clang. It was the sound of a cocking hammer. He felt his heart stop as he froze in place, suddenly becoming motionless like a manequin. There seemed to be a loaded gun just a few meters away from him. Right _behind him._

"Don't move... Put your hands up."

It was a woman's voice, much to his disbelief. He did as she told him to, but only halfway. He played it cool.

"Ms. Pichon?"

"Who are you?", she replied. "What are you doing here?"

Her voice had a slight hint of an accent. Caleb wanted to turn around and check if the face matched Jacobsen's file on her. But doing so might earn him a bullet to his bare-head.

For a moment there, he thought that he was hallucinating, that the weariness in his body had finally gone and done tricks to his mind. He couldn't believe his ears. How in the actual fuck did this woman get the jump on him? Wasn't she asleep? He urged to himself not to do anything rash. He started to play the part of a humble medical servant again, just as he was supposed to. Images of that old geezer who attended his physical therapy returned to his brain. He was amicable and a bit jolly: traits that stand a good chance of defusing the current situation.

"Woah, easy there missy.", he spoke in faux lightheartedness. "I'm just a technician... I'm 'ere 'ta check on the heart monitor."

Again, a stupid Southern accent. But it didn't fool her.

"Who. Sent. You…?", she demanded.

"That Russian... Melkova? Melnikova? She's checking on someone else at the moment…"

That was a damn lie, Caleb thought, but he was banking on Pichon's ignorance. The name was from Jacobsen's dossiers, whom she noted was one of the people she saw at the BAMC when she was here. Whoever the fuck this Melnikova-character was, it attracted neither his concern nor care.

"…Listen ma'am. I dunno how ya smuggled a gun, but-"

"Shut up and face the wall.", Pichon ordered him, not hesitating even for a little bit. "If you do something funny… I swear I'll shoot you where you stand."

The man shrugged and did as she said, yet again emulating the carefree persona of his disguise. He managed to sneak a glance at the woman in bed. In those few nanoseconds, his suspicions were proven right. Pichon was there, sitting up on the bed, covered in a white blanket, a right hand wrapped around a six-shooter, and eyes filled with killer intent. The sound of the metal cocking back was distinctively authentic. Her voice was too coherent and perceptible to be that from a hallucination. The fast beating on his heart was both real and bizarre, as would anyone in his situation might experience.

Did he slip up? Did he screw up in this mission, just like that?

"You people are so relentless, aren't you?", Pichon asked.

For the first time, he felt threatened. This couldn't be real. The bald man wondered that if he exerted himself a little bit more, this entire thing would play out differently. Like a dream. A dream wherein he wasn't the one at this bitch's mercy. He needed to act fast; find an opportunity and turn this mess around. He prayed earnestly that the chair blocking the door would hold out for him, buy him time. He knew that his chance of success was very slim, but he needed to make his shot count. Just like what he did in Bartlett. In Los Angeles. In Redmond. Yet somehow, he could not help but wonder if the red-haired skank was watching the whole thing, via a hidden camera somewhere. He sorely needed her help right now, and perhaps he knew it.

"Please put your weapon down, ma'am… It'll be bad if you miss."

All pretense of friendliness was slowly fading away, as Caleb made a veiled threat to put Pichon off her game. He was about to take off the façade, and perhaps frighten the French girl into submission. But she wasn't scared of him.

"Miss? Not from this distance.", she gloated.

Just as she finished her sentence, a cough escaped her lips. It was his chance. With a quick reflexe, Caleb pulled out the pistol from its holster and turned around.

*Bang!*

…

* * *

Sampierdarena, Genoa, Italy  
At the same time

…

Sporadic gunshots continued to echo from the distance, bringing life to an otherwise-sleepy night. It seemed that the targets were still being chased by the Pursuit Teams. Sirens and horns were wailing all throughout; if one could listen closely enough, there were tire screeches molded into the cacophony as well. While other cops in the world might criticize the Italian police and their work, nobody would argue against the Italian _Carabinieri,_ who certainly knew their stuff well. They took tonight's mission seriously, and they sure as hell weren't taking any chances with the latest band of bastards they were told to pounce on.

" _Rosso-Due, stiamo venendo da voi_. _Trenta secondi_." ("Red-Two, we're headed your way. 30 seconds.")

The voice in the radio belonged to Adriano Martello. Callsign 'Rosso-Uno', or 'Red-One', nicknamed 'Maestro' by his peers. He was the top dog leading this mission, riding shotgun in a Pursuit Team vehicle. They were apparently closing the distance on their prey. Thanks to an anonymous tip, he and his colleagues were able to raid yet another suspected terrorist hideout, this time at the heart of one of Italy's major cities. A few of the bad guys were killed in the firefight that ensued, but other than that the mission went off without a hitch. However, a stroke of bad luck during the clean-up created a massive chase throughout Genoa, guns-blazing. The dock district of Sampierdarena, in the Port of Genoa, was the terrorists' escape route. It was also the finish line for this whole pursuit. Tonight would certainly land the morning's headlines tomorrow. But Team Rainbow didn't mind, as they watched the whole thing from their overhead drone feeds.

There was a masked man, crouching beside a shipping crate, who kept an eye on his PDA with unusual conviction. This caused his similarly-dressed partner no small amount of worry. Both of them wore the same brown and green uniform as their allies did.

The pistol fire was later drowned out by the indistinguishable rattling of a machinegun. A heavy-duty, belt-fed, high-caliber weapon that was favored by Martello, ever the cigar-chomping smiler. The noise turned a few heads from the small group of Italian commandos hiding in the Port's furthest warehouse. For them, they knew that that their mission was reaching its climax. Among the armed men concealed behind the shipping crates was 'Red-Two', who had a surprise waiting for their quarry. Aria De Luca, a Libyan immigrant, a prospect for Team Rainbow, currently working alongside two of their operations, even if she wasn't aware of it yet. Her service record painted her as a sort-of celebrity: a darling in the Italian GIS, after that massive operation against the Vinciguerra crime family last month. She was a short, quiet, yet cordial kind of character. A red bandanna covered her face, while strands of her black hair peered from her crimson beret. Her headset continued to buzz with indistinguishable babble, probably from 'Red-One', talking in their native tongue.

" _Affermativo.",_ she whispered back. _"Siamo in posizione, in attesa_." ("We're in position, standing by.")

The time for action was nigh. As the masked man gripped his shotgun, he paused to look at De Luca's elaborate little... puppet show, splayed throughout the warehouse. It was absurd. A certain girl might look at this setup and scratch her head at the utter silliness, before coming up with a more complex and effective system. She had always been a miracle worker with machines...

"Are you ready?", De Luca asked him, breaking his thoughts for a bit.

He only bobbed his head as a reply. As subtle as an acknowledgement could be, from one ex-undercover cop to another.

"...Just follow my lead, sir... Play along, or tonight will end with a bloodbath."

There came a distant crash, just as soon as she reassured him. The gunshots in the background intensified, indicating their close proximity to the warehouse. The targets had just drove their van into the building, and were now moving on foot. From the sounds of it, they were panicking like rodents: exactly where Martello wanted them to be. The trap was about to be sprung. De Luca was seeing the whole thing unfold from the shadows. She regulated her breathing, containing herself from being excited like a giddy schoolgirl. Behind her mask, no doubt she was smiling to herself, awaiting her moment.

Using hand signals, she told her squad to ready their weapons, who kept themselves hidden from view as well. This gesture prompted the masked man and his partner to gear up, cock the hammers and switch off safeties wherever appropriate. De Luca kept her right hand raised while she aimed down the reflex sight on her Mx4 9mm. The targets were just a dozen feet away from her position at this point. Their footsteps and shouting were getting louder and louder, almost in sync to the quickening heartbeats of the cops.

After a few seconds, she suddenly dropped her hand in a chopping motion. It was the signal everyone had been waiting for.

*Clang!*

A switch was turned on. Immediately, dozens of spotlights inside the warehouse came to life, wrapping the wide-open room with such incredible brightness. The tangos shrieked like terrified thieves and covered their eyes, as they were caught completely off guard by the blinding light. None of them felt the urge to return fire, and instead they started to panic even more. With the targets confused and disoriented, the Containment Team emerged from the shadows, bristling with military-grade firearms. It was game over.

" _Mettete giù le armi!_ Drop your weapons!", De Luca yelled.

"Hands! Show us your hands!", the masked man also shouted.

He, his partner, and the female cop inched their way towards the terrorists, as the rest of the Containment Team covered their backs. Laser sights from ARX-160s pinpointed where the rest of the squad were aiming at, warning the tangos from any rash action. To the terrorists' horror, the Italian cops were themselves surrounded by dozens upon dozens of silhouettes, all of whom were crouching behind or standing above the tall shipping boxes. Their forms were completely obscured by the bright spotlights, but they seemed to be holding weapons. The odds had just been tipped to the cops favor, and they outnumber their targets by 5 to 1.

"Do not move or we will open fire!", De Luca spoke loudly in her accent.

Her plan worked. Faced with overwhelming odds and surrounded from all sides, the terrorists could do nothing. She promptly relieved them of their weapons, then forced them to kneel. They admitted defeat, but none of them whimpered nor cried. They maintained a stoic look in their eyes, with embers of hate remaining. Killers they might be, they were professionals nonetheless, just like those shooters in France. But thankfully, instead of a bitter fight to the end, tonight's police operation concluded with the bad guys captured alive. Their escape out of Genoa and the country had been completely thwarted.

The masked man and his partner made a quick headcount. Eleven tangos, all in all, wearing a mix of civilian clothes and tactical webbing across their torsos. Their necks were lined with dog-tags. Their wallets had fake passports.

They were Americans.

" _Rosso-Uno, è Rosso-Due._ (Red-One, this is Red-Two).", De Luca spoke into her radio _, "...tutti gli obiettivi in stato di fermo_ (all targets are in custody) _. Non ci sono state perdite_ (No casualties reported)."

Her message wasn't necessary at all, as Martello and his friends had already entered the warehouse by the time that she finished talking. The big, burly man practically pranced his way to the woman's side, and exchanged a high-five with her. The rest of the Containment Team then left their cover to begin processing the prisoners. The mission was over. As the bad guys were led away, Red-Two lowered her bandanna and called the masked man's attention.

"Are you satisfied... 'Mr. Bandit'?"

...

He didn't respond to her question. Nor did he remove his face cover to reply in kind. Only his partner talked in his stead, who was courteous enough to remove his eye protection as a sign of respect.

"We're done and dusted for tonight…", Mark Chandar spoke politely. "…Couldn't have done this without your men, Miss De Luca. Cheers."

" _Prego_ (You're welcome)… But what's wrong with _him_ , huh?"

"Hmph. Leave me alone.", Dominic grunted.

"Relax my friend!", Martello patted him in the shoulder. "The bad guys are going to jail, and we are all still alive. That counts as a victory, yes? Celebrate!"

Between the big guy's fingers was a cigar, offered as a gift. The German promptly cast it aside and walked away. He wasn't in the mood.

As more police cars started to assemble outside of the warehouse, De Luca signaled her squad to switch off the spotlights they used, replacing the brightness with the building's own ceiling lamps. To the terrorists' surprise, they realized that they had just been deceived. The silhouettes that encircled them were not human. Rather, they were crude mock-ups of shooters, made from nothing more than mannequins and props that the Containment Team found at the warehouse. Rakes and mops stood in for rifles, metal buckets for intimidating helmets. They were decoys. Crude, ramshackle, but did their jobs really well.

Some of the cops relished the look of utter disbelief from the bad guys as they were cuffed and led away. Dominic shook his head in mild disgust, realizing that this stupid puppet show had actually worked. Using the dummies to exaggerate their numbers sounded like what a kid would come up. Only a complete moron would fall for them too, but a little ingenuity and a few strategically-placed construction lamps took them to the next level. Another mission accomplished, another accolade to Italian law enforcement- all thanks to a big, scruffy guy, and an unassuming, crafty woman. They celebrated in their own way, this time exchanging fist bumps.

"I can't believe the plan worked, Aria.", went Martello. "Next time, you'll be pulling out rabbits out of your cap. Hah!"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Oh, I got one! Remote-controlled machine guns! Extra firepower, you know? Only real! I think my friends in my old security agency still had one of those..."

The woman laughed and shook her head. Her next words were dripping with sarcasm.

"Ah yes, why work when you can sit back and let machines do everything! What next, a bulletproof camera with a laser gun?"

As the two continued in their chat, Mark went straight into in rifling through the contents of the terrorists' van, which had crashed outside of the warehouses. He needed answers. He and his partner knew that the men they just captured were part of an even larger network, one that Rainbow was yet to completely unravel. The past few days had been nothing short of difficult, ever since Courchevel. As terrible it was to nearly lose a friend, Dominic knew that something much more terrible was brewing right under everyone's noses. Something so massive in scale that not even the best professionals in the counter-terror business have put a dent on it. Not the Poles, nor the Spaniards, nor even the Brits and their famed MI6.

Slipping away from the rest of the cops, Dominic made his way to the captured prisoners who were being led into the squad cars. He was fuming while he walked, but nobody paid attention to him. He wanted retribution. Before Mark could stop him in his tracks, the masked German darted past him and made a gangway for one of the prisoners. He grabbed him by the collar and shoved him to the ground, then proceeded to pound his face with vicious abandon. It happened so fast.

"Hey! Stop!"

"Bandit, stop! KNOCK IT OFF!"

A commotion ensued. De Luca, Martello, and a handful of other troopers tried to break the fight apart, shouting incessantly. But they didn't dissuade him; instead, the masked man continued to pummel his victim- a nondescript Caucasian with black hair and a goatee. Dominic recognized his face, as from one of the files that Rainbow recovered in Hameau du Noblisse a few days ago. This man was the leader of the Genoa Cell, and he kept in touch with the other sleeper agents that the White Masks have deployed across the continent. From Nagoya to Ibiza to Krakow. He didn't know the scumbag's name, nor did her cared to. Whatever it was that the terrorists were planning, it wouldn't just end with an attack in one country, as they were all led to believe. The harsh truth was that Rainbow had been wasting their time chasing leads everywhere, trying to catch small-fry like the bastard on his grips.

At this point, Mark wanted to join in the scuffle. Thankfully, it was already over by the time he grabbed the intel from the terrorists' vehicle, stuffing them into his backpack. Dominic glanced at the young lad, who was so busy wrapping up his work. The next moment, Martello and De Luca literally yanked the German away from the poor man he was beating up. The two of them led him away into a corner where he could calm down, as the other cops tended to the badly-bruised prisoner.

The distraction worked.

"You are quite the character, sir.", the female cop berated. "And I thought the Vinciguerras were the worst."

"Don't patronize me."

"Hurting an unarmed man? What did he ever do to you, eh?", Martello shook his head. "If our boss hears what you just did, I'm not sure we can protect you."

Dominic didn't indulge him with an answer. Instead, he leaned against the corner, hands on his pockets, while he let the two team leaders grill him more. They had handcuffs at the ready; no doubt they were already contemplating to throw the book at him or not. De Luca had an inquisitive tone in her voice, as expected from someone with a background in undercover work. And if she ever decided to arrest him with impunity, he would hold her no ill will. But Martello, strangely enough, was suddenly quite chill about the whole mess. Rather than join his partner in interrogating their supposed-ally, he simply lit up one of his cigars and gave it a little puff. And once again, he offered it to Dominic.

This time, he took it. He lifted his balaclava partway to stick the cigar into his mouth, before asking for a lighter. The flavorful scent managed to ease his nerves and boil down his temper, even for a little bit. His colleagues, in turn, have calmed down as well. Unbeknownst to them, the scuffle he started served a double-purpose, even though the masked man fully-intended to hurt the prisoner. With a vengeance.

"…These men put my friend in a hospital.", Dominic explained. "…He's still fighting for his life."

"I sympathize...", De Luca dialed down her anger. "…But that is not an excuse to assault someone. I need to talk with your supervisor, Bandit… Or whatever your real name is."

"Heh. He's right there."

Approaching from behind was Mark, or 'Mute' as the rest of the Caribinieri knew him. Hoisting his backpack and shouldering his MP5, he went to them with a confident stride. He overheard their dialogue, but he didn't seem distraught. Rather, he was more concerned about his partner.

"Can you give us a minute, ma'am?"

"Hmph. Sure."

With that, De Luca walked away, tailed by the brawny guy with a cigar on his mouth. The British lad waited until there were no more prying eyes and ears around them, before speaking in a hushed tone.

"For fuck's sake, Brunsmeier. You tryin' to get us into trouble again! What if you get nicked?"

"Let me worry about our 'friends', boy… What did you find?"

"See for yourself."

Mark opened his backpack and revealed its contents. Papers, folders, and wads of cash. But one thing that caught Dominic's eye was a hard-case laptop. It was enclosed in a translucent, shock-absorbing frame, hinting at its importance. The young engineer switched the device on and worked his magic on the keyboard. Several dialogue boxes popped up, which contained all sorts of data. Dominic didn't know exactly what they all meant, but then again he didn't need to. His partner was doing the thinking for both of them.

And from the way he sifted through the data, it was clear that Mark had found tonight's jackpot. Everything checked out. Much like those fanatics in Courchevel, the tangos they traded shots with here in Genoa also did their bookkeeping electronically. Shipments of American military equipment, fake passports, code phrases that they used to communicate with each other. Rainbow's theory had panned out more than they imagined: the White Masks were indeed masquerading as American soldiers for some nefarious purpose. The level of planning and sophistication Team Rainbow had seen from them only corroborated what they found in France. There was still a lot of information to process, though. They needed to find the brains behind it all, whoever or wherever he was…

"What are those?", Dominic asked.

His eyes came across a series of numbers, seemingly arranged in random.

"Coordinates, innit?", Mark replied. "Just like the ones we found on the Chalet."

 _To where?_

The young man inputted several commands to the laptop, which caused the screen to produce a 2D map. The numbers corresponded to a certain area in the map's grid, made apparent by a blinking light indicating a possible match. It seemed to point in the middle of nowhere, until a string of text labeled the dot on the map. It caused Dominic to widen his eyes in surprise, and for Mark to scoff in disbelief. They had seen that place referenced in the terrorists' files...

...

"Hudson Bay."

"Mute. We need to call Valkyrie. Right now."

Vengeance had taken a backseat at this point. The revelation was far too significant to ignore. Two intel caches, from two separate terrorist cells, both of which had been reaching out to someone located in the Canadian Arctic. Coincidence? It didn't make a lick of sense, but it was good enough for a lead. Meghan and her friends were the closest to that grid; they needed to be roused from whatever the hell they were doing and launch an incursion as soon as possible. She would be rightfully pissed, for sure, given the amount of ground they would be covering. Or rather, the amount of water. But they could narrow down their search to one name. It was to be the second surprise for the two Rainbow operatives tonight.

"Arklark? What the bloody hell is that?"

...

"Hold it right there!", someone suddenly shouted.

Just as they were about to sort their comms gear, Dominic and Mark turned their heads to the source of the noise. The man with the goatee had broken free from his confinment at the patrol car and was fleeing from his captors, even if his hands were still cuffed. The cops sprung into action, raising their weapons and yelling at the prisoner to halt. But the man didn't let up. De Luca and Martello were themselves shocked at yet another commotion, as the two of them quickly ran towards the guy, with the woman being the faster sprinter. She nearly tackled him into the ground, but the bastard managed to wring himself free. Cussing to herself, the woman brought out her SMG and aimed it at him. She held back, delivering a warning instead.

"Stop! Stop or we'll shoot!"

Her partner placed a hand on her shoulder.

" _Lascialo a me_ (leave him to me)."

With one list whiff from his cigar, he hoisted up his machine gun. The mounted laser sight beamed a light onto the escapee's left heel. Flicking the cigar away with one hand, Martello then peered into the ACOG on his weapon, but not before letting out the tobacco smoke through his nostrils. He was smiling all the way, like a complete madman. Chockful of confidence. It was awe-inspiring, enough to bring a tiny smile on the angry German's face.

A trigger was pulled and a round was let loose.

…

* * *

…

*Bang!*

One more gunshot rang throughout the room, causing Emma's ears to ring for a second time. 158 grams of gunpowder in a .357 cartridge equated to tremendous force and power, reverberating in such tight confinement. Looking into her revolver's sights, the bald men fell on the ground in excruciating pain, his white coat now tarnished with large, red stains. His right hand was wrapped around a sound-suppressed pistol of some kind, pulled from a hidden holster somewhere in his clothes. That only confirmed to her that this man was an assassin. He came for her, to finish job.

Good thing she was prepared.

At that moment, an alarm was triggered across the hallway. The door to her room banged furiously, but it was blocked by a chair, no doubt her assailant's handiwork. Her trigger-finger wanted to let off another round and finish him off for good, while he squirmed on the ground in his own blood. But her hand felt weak. It took a lot of strength just for her to sit up on the bed, to take aim, and then to brace for the recoil. She winched as the painkillers seemingly started to weaken, causing her gunshot wound to throb. The bloodstain on the bandage across her chest grew larger. The pain didn't matter to her, though.

*Slam!*

The door swung open thanks to a well-executed kick. It sent the chair flying across the room, which certainly raised the tension even more. Emma could feel her pulse quicken even more. She gripped her firearm with one hand that much tighter.

"Emmanuelle!", she heard Monika call her name. "Emma, talk to me!"

"I'm here!"

The German lady appeared into the door frame, donning a sweater and a pair of jeans, hands wrapped around a P12 handgun, and flanked by two other MPs. She made eye contact with Emma, wordlessly asking if she was alright. The other woman nodded rather weakly, before putting down her revolver and raising her hands up. The guards needed to know she was not a threat.

As Monika went to her side and checked on her, Emma stared at the man lying on the ground, moaning in severe agony. The cold, menacing tone he spoke with earlier had given way to pained mewling, making his intimidation rather pathetic. His sound-suppressed pistol was dropped on the floor, making it easier for the security guards to see. They restrained the wounded assassin with handcuffs, while another man recovered the loose firearm and holstered it. Down the hallway, one could hear incessant chattering and screaming throughout the Recovery Ward. The gunshots had literally woken up the whole building, maybe even the entire hospital.

It was finally over.

"Are you okay, Emma? Did he hurt you?", Monika asked her, deathly worried.

"No, no. I'm fine."

Blue eyes went wide in shock.

" _Mein Gott_ , you're bleeding again! I-I'll call the doctor!"

Before she could leave her side, the Frenchwoman gripped the sleeve of Monika's sweater. The look she gave her spoke miles about her bravery. She was in pain, true, but she wasn't dying. Rather, she found an opportunity in the assassin she nearly killed. Perhaps there was a reason why Emma couldn't finish him off, despite every fiber of her being urging her to do so.

"Get… Get him to talk… He might know where Ethan is…"

Even now, after everything that just happened, her thoughts were still on a friend. She prayed that there was still time...

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** This chapter took a bit longer than expected; I originally planned this one as a nod to Hitman, but the end-product was too on the nose so I rewrote it lol. On the bright side, I feel I did Alibi and Maestro some good here. If you're wondering why they don't have their gadgets, it's because they're not yet members of Rainbow at this point in the story (their gadgets were made by Twitch and Echo, if you read the Bios).

We're nearing the end here folks! Two more chapters to go and an epilogue. Please stay tuned for them! :)


	18. Chapter 17 - Out of Time

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen – "Out of Time"**

* * *

…

"Mmmf! Hgmmmfghhf!"

A steady stream of cold water continued to pour onto Ethan's face. His grunts of pain were muffled by the damp towel covering his mouth, eyes, and nose. Everything was black. The icy liquid mixed with his blood intermittently, like daggers cutting deeply, and it touched his wounded form rather freely. It seeped into the various cuts, gashes, and lesions that dotted his unprotected flesh. He struggled to wring himself free from the chair he was sitting on, but his strength failed him. His hands were bound tight. His feet felt dead. His eyes wallowed in complete darkness, accentuating his helpless suffering. His captors made damn sure that each moment was agony; inching him ever closer to death but keeping him alive as much as possible.

"Mmmgfhhf! MGMMMMFHH!"

"Keep it goin' bro...", he heard one man spoke. "…keep going…"

Waterboarding. This rather crude form of 'enhanced interrogation' was meant to mimic the feeling of drowning, an art perfected by the CIA that earned Guantanamo its infamy. Done right, the captive would usually confess to anything, acquiesce to any demand. A small misstep would result to death via asphyxiation. The whole thing screamed of Emily's handiwork, but alas, she was not present in the room. At least as far as he knew; she could be watching his misery from a one-way mirror somewhere or from a video camera mounted up high, as she was wont to do. That was how she worked on her prisoners. That was how she wanted to torture Mohandes, all those months ago. It felt like distant memory...

Or she could've just left Ethan to rot and die; that much was also certain. He didn't know anything anymore. He didn't know _her_ , as much as he thought he did.

*beep!*

"…Time. Turn it off."

The stopwatch marked a pause to his suffering, allowing him to catch his breath. With a forceful pull, the masked interrogator removed the damp piece of cloth covering Ethan's face, letting his eyes bathe in the bright lights of the metallic room, even for a while. A water hose dangled above him, dripping its last few ounces. The prisoner gagged and coughed, trying in vain to force out the water that seeped into his orifices. He took in as much air he could, as he knew that they would suffocate him again a little later. At the same time, he mustered whatever scrap of inner strength he had left, to remain firm in the face of extreme adversity. He had been at the enemy's mercy for so long. The temptation to give up was that much nearer, even if it was only by a small amount.

Not helping his resolve Ethan's his ignorance of time: it could've been a day or two since the White Masks have captured him. At the back of his mind, there was a faint plea for mercy, anything to stop the torture. He was human, after all, and everyone had a breaking point. But there were no two ways of going about his current situation; even if he cooperated, there would be no reprieve for him today. Or tomorrow. The terrorists might be good at inflicting pain, but they would never get what they want. He simply didn't have the knowledge that they sought. And if even he did, they sure as hell wouldn't be getting it without a fight.

Even after they've smashed his right leg into a bloody pulp.

"Had enough yet, fuck-boy?", the interrogator yanked his head, the white ballistics mask had completely hidden his features.

The prisoner looked on with weak, but defiant eyes. He would keeping holding back for as much as he could. Rather than spill the beans like these brutes wanted, he repeated a mantra, which he had been reciting since the tortures began.

"Mallory, Ethan James. 678452056."

*Smack!*

Insolence was repaid by a punch to the left temple, rattling his head for a bit. As usual, he refused to give in. Ethan found it easy to defy his foes if he simply let his rage simmer. Traitors, the lot of them; the White Masks were on a whole different level of insidiousness. These scum fancied themselves as heroes, fighting to change the world, 'for the good of America' or whatever shit their twisted ideology dictated. They wore masks that earned their namesake to confuse and frighten anyone who would dare try to stop them. The need for deception was pathetic enough, the lengths they were willing to go through their mission only made them worse. Those poor souls in Bartlett were an 'unfortunate, but necessary sacrifice', using Emily's own words... that was more reason to vilify these people as monsters, unworthy of submission.

How long could he keep up, though? Ethan tightened his hands into fists. The longer he remained conscious, the more the pain in his body weakened his resolve. He had been up for hours, or even days, without as much as a few moments of respite or a few scraps of food to munch on. At the very least, his mind still worked. Years of training on survival and resistance in captivity continued to kick in, keeping him on the game for a little longer. Rule number one: being a prisoner should not be an excuse to surrender the fight. He knew that the enemy wanted him to talk. The least he should do was to deny them the satisfaction.

"Wrong answer.", the brute chuckled. "Last chance."

"Mallory... Ethan James... 678452056."

A prisoner of war was only obliged to give his last name and serial number when interrogated. Of course, the White Masks didn't care much for the Geneva Conventions. Instead, they laughed at Ethan's pathetic attempt to defy them…

*Smack!*

And delivered yet another savage blow into his face. The bloodied cheek only cemented who they really were. No mercy, no conscience, no soul.

"I'll ask ya again. Where's the rest of your team?"

"M…Mallory… 67845- augh!"

Another right hook to the face, this time strong enough to cut his lip with a fresher gash. More blood streamed from the wound, mixing with the cold water that earlier drenched his body. By now, his white shirt and black slacks were completely soiled with all sorts of stains, sullying them forever. The interrogator delivered a couple more punches to his face. What they got was even more silence.

Ethan was buying himself time. To what end, he could not say. It was an instinctive drive to resist defeat, something that his years in Delta Force have fostered and stamped into his soul. Even as pain started to cloud his thoughts, he urged himself to remain firm, like a mountain that would never bow to a howling hurrican. He pictured the faces of everyone at Bragg, all of whom were begging him not to break. More so, the girl with brown hair and freckled face, lying in a hospital bed somewhere. Each and everyone of their lives depended on his stubborn refusal to speak. Should he fail, he would've figuratively signed their death warrants.

"Spill it! Where are the others?! WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY HIDING!?"

"Go to hell…"

At that point, the interrogator was nearing the end of his patience. He reared for yet another punch, but he instead looked at his grey-garbed companion in the eye. The masked man, who earlier ordered the water be turned off, was leaning against the metallic wall, arms crossed, and promptly laughed while shaking his head. It was a signal. A gesture that foretold that it was time to move to 'Plan B'- something much worse than the waterboarding. The scoffs under their breaths pointed to a yes, as the chief-punch-thrower left the room in a huff. The other man, meanwhile, looked at Ethan, presumably with a mocking expression. He, on the other hand, remained firm and defiant. Even as he was getting tired.

The pause in the pain gave him some breathing room to reflect on his current predicament. And yet, his mind drifted to another topic: Emmanuelle Pichon. Emily had threatened to kill her unless he divulged the location of the rest of their comrades. A man named Caleb had been sent to do the deed. That bald guy seemed like a fearsome lapdog, that much was certain, given how he savagely attacked and subdued his own comrade, Adam Kipper, without as much as batting an eye. That bit was still a strange spectacle to witness, but it didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Rainbow, meanwhile, had to step up, turn the tables around, and somehow kill that damn assassin before he got to the Frenchwoman. Least of all Monika Weiss, who was sent to guard her as well.

Stopping Caleb would be victory enough, as far as Ethan was concerned. He already resigned himself to this sorry fate a few hours ago. He was dead meat, a lost cause; nobody would be coming to his rescue, nor should he expect it. Team Rainbow wouldn't know where he was; the only one who did was woman he used to call a friend, as well as the lackeys under her command. The peace of mind wasn't absolute, however. There was still the prospect of mass murder in New York that occupied his fears. There was still the idea that he had given his comrades the wrong intel all this time, as they were sent to guard the wrong place thanks to him. He so desperately wanted to tell them that the Summit was nothing more than a sideshow for something much, much worse.

As if that was still possible, given Ethan's current state. He closed his eyes and briefly dreamed of a familiar place. His daughter and her mother on a porch, waving at him as he parked his car on a driveway. Little Jenny rushing to meet him, only to be scooped up into his arms, laughing all the way. The wife giving him a peck on the cheek as she led the way home. Happier times. It was strange though; he couldn't recognize her face. Eyes of green and hair as vibrant as trees in autumn…

The door to the room suddenly opened again. The interrogator was back, this time with a steel pipe on hand. Ethan felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise in abject fear; the first since they started torturing him. The weapon could only have one purpose.

"Let's see if this can… 'persuade' you better."

*Whack!*

Without warning, the callous man brought the pipe crashing into the prisoner's left ankle, audibly shattering a bone there. The pain was intense.

"AAARRRGHH!"

"Let's try your left leg this time. See how long you'll last...", the interrogator smirked. "...Ya listening, tough guy? You're running out of time..."

The overwhelming agony sent his nerves on fire, even more powerful than before. It was worse from when he was shot with a high-caliber round, or when he had shrapnel pierce his torso. He reacted similarly: grunting and mewling as any wounded man would. But moments later, he sucked it all up with forceful breaths of air. Pain was only in his mind, he told himself. His body better get used to it, as there would be more misery waiting for him in the next few hours. Despite his weakening resolve telling otherwise, he recited the same mantra on his head over and over. He would never talk. He would never sell out his comrades. These bastards who put him on their mercy would only succeed in wasting their time. They're better off killing him.

As the interrogator reared for yet another blow with the pipe, Ethan glared him with utter defiance. At the same time, he prayed that his sacrifice would somehow do some good. Somehow spare Emma's life…

 _Do your worst, you son of a bitch!_

…

* * *

National Security Operations Center (NSOC), Location: Classified  
Day 20

One day before Freedom Day

…

"Eyes up everyone; ya know the drill...", Seamus Cowden's drawly voice sounded over the speakers. "...Buck, take yer team portside."

"Affirmative. Bravo, on me."

"Kapkan, you have the bridge.", the Scotsman spoke again. "Record room is your priority."

"Charlie copies, Alpha. On the move."

"Keep it together lads. Those gun trucks we saw will be back in a few minutes, so let's leg it."

…

The mission radio gave much needed ambiance to the four dark corners of the room. The metallic walls were brightened only by computer screens and dim blue lights. A digital timer, counting at ten seconds and zero minutes, ticked away from the corner. Hushed tones, murmurs, and only the widescreen display in front provided everyone with something to watch. As intelligence officer Meghan Castellano sifted through dialogue boxes of data on her monitor, Director "Rainbow Six" kept an air of calmness, watching the slow-paced action unfold. She was flanked by Miles Campbell who had a brace on his right arm, another spectator for today.

The chatter from encrypted radio channels brought context to the UAV feeds, flashed before the screen in greyscale. Four large monitors combined to create a much bigger view of a panning, overhead camera image. The real-time footage showed eight silhouettes marked by blinking strobes disembarking from a lone Zodiac. They quickly split off from each other into three smaller groups, each of them started to move across a featureless white field with weapons raised. They had a few meters' worth of distance from each other. Their background consisted nothing more than glaciers and ice sheets, with some parts chipping away. Temperatures were below zero degrees.

The area of operations was given a name: Hudson Bay.

As expected, the stakes were high. Team Rainbow's past deployments in Europe were not entirely pleasant, given that Operator Elias Kötz had nearly lost his life to an improvised explosive a few days ago. Baker's people were still reeling from it, even though the Genoa mission went relatively better. But business as usually, and all that jazz. At the very least, the team at Fort Bragg had an easy job this time around. They only had one objective. And the day had just begun.

"Charlie-One, heads up.", Meghan spoke into her headset. "UAVs have spotted two tangos patrolling the second deck, facing starboard."

"I see them.", Max replied through the speakers. "What's the call?"

"Hold your fire and stay out of sight. Rainbow's not yet cleared for contact."

Six noted the conversation, watching silently as her hand-picked elites went to work, thousands of miles from where she was standing. Mission parameters for today was to avoid engaging any hostiles until everyone was in their designated entry points. That way, they would be in a much better position to achieve their objective once shit had hit the fan. The probability of that happening was higher than anyone could've anticipated though, as the White Masks had brought a lot of hardware with them in this side of the Arctic- greater than what the simulations predicted. And as Seamus said earlier, the bastards also had heavily-armed vehicles prowling the outskirts, perhaps to look out for errant patrols from the Canadian military.

"Coffee, ma'am?", a young man, her trusted aide, offered a warm cup.

"Thank you, Ryan."

She sipped without taking her eyes off the screens, then placed the saucer at a nearby desk. The timer had counted up to twenty seconds, then twenty-one, then twenty-two. Her Operators didn't dawdle. Each moment was well-spent and each maneuver was well-drilled. Strike Element Charlie, headed by Maxim Basuda, led the advance from the east. Upon reaching their respective entry points, Sebastien Côté's Strike Element Bravo then seized the front sector in order to support Alpha's ingress, carefully staying out of sight. If compromised, the two teams would draw attention away from the rear, allowing Seamus Cowden and the rest of Strike Element Alpha to press on, undetected.

The timer had reached thirty seconds. Inside NSOC, a dozen analysts kept a close eye on the action, transcribing everything through their keyboards or muttering instructions to Norfolk's drone operators. It took a lot of bargaining on Six's part to muster the National Security Agency today; she was of a keen mind to make use of this rare opportunity granted to her by the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the NSA Director. Some would say that using the NSA's resources to benefit her organization was a damn underhanded move, but she was way past caring at this point. Not when one of her own operatives was in jeopardy.

All was going according to plan. But at the back of Director Six's mind, she couldn't help but fear for the worst. Rainbow had burned far too much time just to get to this place. Even more time just to get everything organized and streamlined, without hampering tomorrow's preparations for the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in Manhattan. The pragmatist in her told that this mission was a haphazard mess- a huge fucking risk, with very little reward. But the leader in her insisted that she was doing the right thing- nobody should be left behind.

"Six-Actual, this is Bravo-Three.", Shuhrat Kessikbayev radioed with his coarse accent. "I've spotted at least ten more tangos patrolling the north-east and north-west perimeters…"

The large screen then produced several red blips, each indicating the location of an enemy combatant. The Spetsnaz commando certainly worked fast scanning for targets with his helmet-mounted imager and drones, showcasing his technological affinity yet again. Impressed by the Uzbek's handiwork, Six smiled to herself and nodded while Meghan pressed the call button on her own radio.

"Check, Bravo-Three.", she replied. "We have your markers."

"Activity is heavier than anticipated, Valkyrie. Recommend we switch our mission profile, over."

"Check that. Give me a minute."

The blonde officer then turned around to look at the esteemed lady-boss, as if to ask for guidance. Six took the hint and nodded back. No words were needed to grant her operatives the permission they sought. Everyone was in position.

"Bravo-Three, this is Six-Actual... All Strike Elements are cleared to engage. Maintain stealth profile and engage targets on sight."

The proverbial breath of fresh air escaped a few people's lips. At long last, payback. There would be no retreating at this point, but then again everyone was done playing things by the numbers.

"Order received, Six-Actual.", Shuhrat acknowledged the order. "All teams, we are weapons free. Sound suppressors on."

"Alpha-One copies. Weapons free."

"Charlie acknowledges. Confirming weapons free."

The UAV feeds visibly showed the Operators affixing silencers onto their weapons. Then, they continued their advance unimpeded; this time, each and every one of them had killer intent. Within seconds, more red pings appeared in the widescreen, indicating the positions of more enemy combatants as spotted by Rainbow's helmet-mounted imagers. But soon after, the markers started to disappear one at a time. Each target spotted was seemingly complemented by the distinct reports of sound-suppressed gunfire, coming across as puffs of dust in the ambient airwaves, then the audible ping of a confirmed enemy neutralized.

Mission time was one minute and three seconds. The screen showed very little of the action, as it had moved indoors, but the results were nonetheless plain to see. One by one, the red blips started to die, followed by a radio call from a Rainbow operative acknowledging the kill. Any hostile they came across was quickly and silently dealt with, showcasing the commandos' unparalleled skill. With well-practiced marksmanship, they steadily inflicted losses to the opposition without any of the bastards knowing it. All of this was nothing for Six to applaud; this was why she recruited them in the first place, after all.

She didn't rest on her laurels, though. She kept a good eye on the area of operations, scrutinizing every detail on each grid, and quietly lambasting herself for failing to piece them together in the first place. The location that Team Rainbow had been deployed to was not an obvious enemy stronghold, nor was it a recognized landmark or structure in Hudson Bay. On the contrary, it had recently been a subject of much media coverage, which the black woman regretted to had ignored beforehand

...

The Aklark.

For months, a lot of news networks had been yammering about how this Canadian luxury yacht mysteriously disappeared from the face of the Atlantic. As if its vanishing was on par with the Bermuda Triangle-stories that people tend to give fanfare to. That changed when Baker sent him an urgent message yesterday, that the Genoa and Courchevel missions had produced something fruitful. Who would've thought that fucking boat had a much more sinister nature? If Brunsmeier was right on the money, then a primary staging area for the White Masks was literally hiding under everyone's noses this _whole time._ A missing ship, presumably hijacked and re-purposed to do the bidding of evil men... But if that was the case, then what the hell was the terrorist base in Redmond all about?

"I don't like this, boss.", Miles turned to Six and spoke in a soft voice. "Feels like they're walking to a trap."

The former FBI-SWAT operative was rather troubled. His assessment of the situation had some merit too; if the White Masks had been playing with Rainbow and its allies this whole time, then the Aklark might be another one of their dirty tricks. It was clear from the tone of his voice that the uncertainty was infuriating. He would rather be out there freezing his ass off with his buddies than be a guest in some large, lifeless room, mostly filled with strangers.

"Have some faith, Castle. That's all we could do right now.", Six replied.

"What if they don't find him? If that Caleb-guy suddenly snitches and says we're lookin' at the wrong place… what then?"

Six didn't react. She didn't want her subordinate to know that the thought had crossed her mind more than once in the past few hours. And she knew, by experience, that the prospect of this mission turning into a bust remained high.

"If our man is not in that ship, then we sink it to the bottom of the ocean…", she remained firm.

Her words accentuated the action being played on the screen. More and more bad guys were eliminated by well-aimed shots from the elite commandos. There would be no mercy for them today. Not after Bartlett. Not after Los Angeles. Not after Redmond. Not after Brooke Army Medical...

"…And I'll personally put a bullet in our assassin's head for wasting our time."

"Heh. You might wanna give Emma the honors, boss. That girl's still wanna… aww hell no."

The slight joy in his voice was cut short, giving way to a tinge of dread. Miles looked flabbergasted as he gazed into the farthest corner of the room, which also prompted Meghan and Six to turn their heads to the same direction. All focused at the real-time mission playing on the screen, they failed to see the doors to the NSOC swing open violently, revealing a man entering with a furious stride and accompanied by several armed guards. Middle-aged, bespectacled, and wearing a slick black suit, as he usually presented himself. It didn't take long for his gaze to home in on the black woman in the business suit. He came up to her with barely-contained anger.

"Director Treadway.", Six spoke calmly. She refused to be intimidated.

"What in God's hell is going on!?", the man blurted out, loud enough to cause many of the analysts to turn their heads. "Who gave you authorization to use this place!?"

"Washington did. I gave them actionable intel, followed your example."

Alas, another confrontation with the Department of Homeland Security. It was as if both the DHS and the Rainbow Program had developed a habit of butting heads, even at the worst of times.

"And why was I left out of this?! I demand an explanation!"

"This rescue mission is outside Homeland Security's purview, Director.", she explained. "I suggest you calm down. I'll file a report to Maryland once my team's back home."

"Rescue mission my ass! If you're engaging a high-level threat in foreign waters, THEN YOU should have goddamned told me about this!"

Six looked at him in silence, repaying his heated rage with cold determination. Meghan was rearing to stand from her seat and meet with the interloper, but Miles gently pulled her down. Once again, this verbal sparring match was between the boss lady and her most vocal detractor. In contrast to the fierce combat operation playing in the background, she opted to use diplomacy to diffuse this unexpected meeting with him. Even if it would turn out to be fruitless in the end.

"Shut it down! All of you, shut everything down!", Treadway demanded. "I am assuming operational command here!"

Staffers and employees looked at each other in confusion. They were now faced with two figures of authority, giving contrasting orders. Some of the people in the room did as they were told, acknowledging the man's seniority. Others remained frozen at their seats, unsure about overriding the NSA's instructions to lend Team Rainbow a hand. The rest, however, were having none of it all. The debacle in Redmond threatened to happen all over again.

"Like hell you would.", Meghan drew out her pistol.

This prompted Miles and Ryan to pull out their firearms as well. They aimed at Treadway as a sign of their loyalty without much care for his bodyguards, who also promptly aimed their weapons at the Rainbow personnel. NSOC analysts gasped and panicked at the fierce stand-off that suddenly ensued. An errant trigger-pull would result in a bloody climax, at literal point blank range.

But the iron lady had anticipated this development. And she had just about her fill of it. With a hand motion to her people, she told them to stand down and lower their weapons. Rather than speak another word, she promptly came up to Treadway's face, her eyebrows forming into a furious frown. Normally in times like these, she would argue her case to any detractor in a calm, dignified manner. Right now, she wanted to tell him that she neither had the time nor the energy for this crap. For _him_. To Miles' and Meghan's quiet surprise, the esteemed Director of the Rainbow Program stared down at the DHS Director. It was chilling to behold. The man, predictably, piped down and played like a meek child, which prompted his guards to follow suit. Everyone, least of all her own subordinates, were surprised by the woman's balls.

"Call the NSA, Bob... They'll tell you that I have every reason to be here."

"You are way out of line, woman!"

"I can say the same to you.", Six smirked rather mockingly. "This is _my_ operation, and you're an uninvited guest…"

It was clear that her legendary patience was nearing its limit. One more spout of words from Treadway's mouth would no doubt end in an altercation, guns or fists be damned. She made her rage known, fuming between the ears. Without blatantly saying it, she gave the other man one last chance to walk away.

"…Campbell, would you please show _Mister_ Treadway the door?"

"With pleasure. Come on, sir. Right this way."

Miles was all too happy to follow her order. Nobody stopped the Rainbow operative, as he tugged on Treadway's collar, who was no means amused. And it seemed that the National Security Agency was on his side, too. Within seconds, a squad of MPs entered the room and stood behind the bespectacled man's little posse. A humble, but threatening, gesture for them to leave the premises before things turned even more sour. It was the ultimate insult, which the DHS Director instinctively tried to repay in kind.

"Get your hands off me, you monkey!"

The slur to Miles only proved Treadway's measure as a man. It was enough to turn a few more heads from the NSOC analysts, aghast at a government official's sudden lack of tact.

"Oof… I've heard worse from beat cops in LA. You'll have to try a li'l bit harder than that, sir."

Treadway swapped stares at Six as he was being led away; the only thing that a man bound by his ego could do. His guards promptly followed from behind like the good henchmen that they were. The confrontation was over.

Six quickly took a deep breath to regain her composure, then looked at Meghan with a reassuring nod. The ex-Navy SEAL gawked all throughout the exchange, as she was dead set on witnessing a frigging slug-fest between a couple of bigwigs. She flicked on her pistol's safety switch, then holstered it away. A potential bloodbath was stopped by a hair's breath; little did she know how close her fears were from becoming a reality. There would be plenty of hell to pay later, but the rescue mission demanded even more attention.

"Six-Actual, this is Alpha-One. We're in the engine room; asset's in the vicinity. Ten yards."

Seamus suddenly spoke over the radio. His voice helped put everyone in the room back in the game. Eyes returned to monitors and ears listened into headsets, now that the intermission number was over.

"Confirm you have a visual?", Meghan asked.

"Roger that, Valk. Snake-cam has eyes on him. Ready to breach and clear on your word."

The widescreen at the front provided a much better view, but nobody could see into the yacht. So with a few button presses, Meghan activated the UAV's full-spectrum, wall-penetrating camera mode. Within a few seconds, the screen displayed a distinct cross-section of the first deck's interior, letting everyone know what was going on behind the vessel's metallic shell. There were three operators from Alpha, stacked up behind a wall, in what appeared to be the Aklark's engine room. Their flickering IRR strobes singled them out amidst the other individuals detected by the flying drone's sensors. Several hostiles on the other side. And they were surrounding what appeared to be a man, tied to a chair. His distance to the wall was considerable.

The radios picked up faint noises in the background. They sounded like screams of pain. It prompted the teams on the ground to formulate a plan of entry.

"Charlie, come in. Did ya get the security network?"

" _Da_. Cameras and alarms are disabled...", Max replied in a coarse Russian accent. "…Multiple tangos down, we're moving to the records room to retrieve any intel."

"Cheers. Bravo, sitrep."

"Front deck is clear, Sledge. All targets EKIA, outgoing comms are also offline. The patrols outside should be in the blind."

"Copy. Six-Actual, we're ready to move in."

Meghan acknowledged all messages, then she looked behind her again, to seek permission one last time. Six gave her the go-ahead by tipping her chin, then taking her cup of coffee for one final sip. It was game time.

For now, everyone should cast aside the earlier confrontation No mistakes should be made this time; only a calculating state of mind while Rainbow Six scrutinzed the results of Brunsmeier's intel. When, how, or why the ship vanished from the Atlantic was no longer her concern; the rescue of Sergeant Ethan Mallory was more important. It would be nice to find out why the White Masks spent a great deal of time hiding out in this boat. The Summit in Freedom Day, the aftermath of Redmond and Bartlett, the hospitalization of two of her own operatives, and all sorts of other things still vied for attention in her mind. But they would have to sit on the backburner for now.

"Alpha-One, Code Green… Get our man home."

Six delivered her order, full of confidence.

"Roger that...", Seamus responded. "...Alpha-Three, front and center."

This prompted one man from the Alpha to peel off and stand in front of the wall. He pulled out something from his backpack.

"Roger.", replied Jordan Trace. "One big fuckin' hole, coming right up."

...

* * *

...

"Arrgh! ARRRGGHH!"

In between his screaming, Ethan took deep breaths in a vain attempt to mask the pain in his ankles. He didn't want to look at them; the sight of blood and shattered skin might only amplify the agony. Easier said than done, given that the bastards had been hammering his legs with much gusto. They were taking turns with steel pipes, as if this was some sort of a sick game.

And to make matters worse, one of the men had taken this _far_ too personally. He was using greater force than his friend, like he fully intended to inflict as much suffering as possible on his captive. As if he wanted to cripple him for good.

"You. You bastards killed so many of us… I'm gonna enjoy every minute of this.", the interrogator gloated.

"Heheheh. This oughta be good...", said his companion. "Always wanted to see what a pair of boneless legs look like."

They raised their pipes, signaling another attack. Ethan felt his heart pound faster and his pulse quicken even more in anticipation. Grey eyes could only watch helplessly as the bludgeoning tools prepared for an even stronger blow. While he remained fierce in defying to their will, deep inside he knew he was nearing the end of his rope. There was only so much pain that any man could endure. He'd rather go with the waterboarding, than experience the literal bone-crushing pain of blunt trauma for even just another minute.

If there was a genuine moment of fear and weakness in his heart, this would be it. Briefly his strength gave way to a gnawing urge to panic. For the first time in God-knows-how-log, he didn't wish to be dead. The next strike would undoubtedly do him in, and he felt ashamed of himself for even admitting to it. It was all over now. The fight was lost.

*Fssssssss*

The men were suddenly stopped by a strange sound from one of the walls. All eyes turned to its direction, and were dumbfounded by the brief spectacle that was unfolding. A spark of light started to draw a line horizontally, then vertically, as if to draw a big rectangle. It looked like a welding torch working in record time. When the sparks finally formed the desired shape, the hissing abruptly stopped. It was followed by a faint beep.

Then, the loudest explosion Ethan had ever heard.

*BOOOOM!*

A violent, sudden gust of air and a rush of flame spouting from the hole in the wall. Ears rang loudly and heads were quickly rattled. The prisoner yelled as the blast tore into the room, sending sharp splinters flying everywhere, but somehow missing his own body by inches. He felt his chair rock and his restraints buckle under the tremendous force, but he was otherwise unharmed. The two White Masks holding steel pipes were not as lucky, however, as the blast consumed them and sent them across the small room like ragdolls.

"Go! Go!", Ethan heard someone speak.

Within seconds, a masked man in white, winterized combat gear had emerged from the hole, brandishing an assault rifle. He aimed at the downed terrorists, who were struggling to stand from the blast. Two shots were let loose, each striking at the bastards' heads. They stopped moving altogether, as puddles of blood began to form.

"Room clear!", the man spoke again.

Next, two other men entered the room through the hole. One was carrying another rifle, the other held a shotgun in his hands. The first man scanned his fields of fire, checking for probable threats. He was well-trained. He motioned to one of his compatriots to check on Ethan. And this chap was a rather tall, imposing figure, easily the strength of ten men. He had a large hammer strapped to his back.

A sight for sore eyes.

"Ace? Ace, can you hear me?", the masked soldier spoke. "Are you okay?"

The accent was a dead giveaway. The prisoner could hardly believe his luck.

"Sledge…? How… how did you…"

"It's alright, mate. We're gettin' you out. Thermite, give me a hand 'ere would ya?"

The tall man knelt down and grabbed a medkit from his pack to tend to Ethan's wounds. Seamus was immediately surprised by his comrade's sorry state. None of his medical supplies seemed to provide comfort, but that was to be expected.

"Fuckin' hell. What did they do to your legs?"

Ethan replied with a pained whimper and a faint smile. Salvation was in his grasp; he couldn't care less to answer anyone's mundane questions. A huge weight was seemingly released from his shoulders and salvation had finally arrived. His comrades were here.

" _Sheise_. Can you walk?", spoke another man in a German accent.

There was no doubt that he was Marius Streicher, as the other German in Bragg was thousands of miles away.

"Heh. Do I have a choice?"

Nobody laughed at his lame joke. Instead, Jordan and Marius removed his restraints and promptly hoisted his arms over their shoulders. At first, Ethan felt nothing as he had sitting too long for hours, unmoving. Then it began to fade away, replaced by a severely-excruciating pain on his legs. A bone audibly cracked as one of his feet touched the cold ground, also dipping it with blood that oozed from torn muscle and skin. This prompted the men to catch him and handle their charge more carefully. At the same time, the tone of their voice was ringed with disgust; the terrorists made sure that he suffered tremendously.

"It's alright, we got ya brother…", the Jordan reassured him. "Upsidaisy…"

"We will have to fly him to a hospital Sledge. Let's call the chopper now, _ja_?"

...

'Hospital'. The word suddenly reminded Ethan of someone, causing him to panic.

...

"Where's Emma? What happened to her!? They said they were… argh!"

His words were stopped in their tracks as more pain wracked his busted right leg. Seamus quickly went to his side, keeping him from tripping into yet another painful fall. But he didn't forget to answer the man's question.

"It's okay, she's alive! They got the guy sent to kill her... Well, _she_ did."

"Valkyrie, this is Alpha-Two." Jordan spoke into his headset. "Jackpot. I say again: Jackpot! Asset's secured; we're ready for extraction."

"Check that, Thermite…", the radio buzzed loudly. "…What's his status?"

"Aww shit… His legs are all messed up. He won't care none to live if we don't get him a medevac soon."

"Check. Busker Two-Four's on its way."

With that, the two men carried Ethan on their shoulders, who he hobbled along with them out the room. He was weakened and delirious, but alive. More than what could be said to the two fuckers who made his life a living hell. But he no longer paid attention to their corpses- his friends came through for him against all odds. A damn miracle, worth a few tears of joy to be shed, even if the brave prisoner tried not to show them.

But they weren't out of the woods just yet. Three men plus a cripple, deep inside enemy territory, no doubt surrounded by tangos. Everybody must've heard the gunshots and the explosion at this point. Yet, for some reason, no alarm was raised. Seamus and the rest of his team showed no sign of panic either, which made Ethan a little bit curious. Rather than bug them with questions, though, he opted to listen in on their conversation.

"Bravo, we're comin' up from the rear deck now. What's yer status?"

"Sectors are clear, Alpha-One.", Sebastien Côté spoke over the horn. It was clear that Scotsman and his boys weren't alone. "We'll do a final sweep, then we'll meet you at the helipad."

"Roger. Secure the primary L-Zed with Charlie; the helo will be here in five."

The rescue team resumed their trek. Ethan grunted in each step he took. The broken bones and blood loss began to take their toll. The waterboarding had significantly weakened his constitution as well, forcing him to gasp for breath in almost every movement he made. A few droplets of blood were left behind everywhere he was taken to.

At the very least, he was free from that blasted metal, nondescript room. Incarcerated and tortured in isolation for so long, he literally had no idea where he was ever since he was nabbed from the hotel. His mind drifted away, trying its best to forget about the pain. Where the hell did the bastards take him anyway? He started recall old sensations, from when he was brought to Emily's presence with a bag over his head. He remembered a cold, stinging surface wherever his skin touched. An icy air emanated in the ambiance, like he was in big-ass freezer or something. His surroundings were nothing more than metal walls, long pipes, and exposed wires. A few dead bodies littered the halls; White Mask terrorists who still held on to their weapons as they dropped dead. His addled mind tried to make out of all the stimuli, even as it was hampered by severe physical agony.

Then in dawned on Ethan. The metal walls were actually connected to bulkheads. In several places his eyes wandered, he saw what appeared to be life vests and rescue floats, stowed away for easy access in case of emergencies. Beyond the steel shell and the icy surface, his ears picked up the faint sounds of water splashing, against a hard, smooth hull. There were icicles and piles of snow scattered all throughout. It was a big revelation: he was in a ship. Perhaps even a small, abandoned boat of some kind, anchored at a frozen place. Was he somewhere in the Atlantic? Minnesota, maybe? Alaska?

One random wall pointed to a name, spelled out in a fancy script. 'Aklark'. He could've sworn he heard that name from before…

"Goddammit, bro…", Jordan blurted out. "Meg lets you off the hook for one fuckin' night and you get captured by the enemy?!"

"What can I say? She hates me."

"No time for chitchat, lads." Seamus butted in while he led the way. "We have to leave this blasted ship. Leg it!"

It was a pun, if Ethan heard one before, but he didn't feel the urge to laugh. The Texan and the antsy German tried their best to hurry, despite the urging from their leader. They moved on from one deck to the next as fast as they could. Progress was slow, however, as it was not easy to carry a wounded man without breaking more of his bones.

Just as they reached the top of yet another staircase, Ethan heard the faint sound of footsteps behind him. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him, given his woozy and weakened state, but his senses had never failed him before. He could clearly make out the noise: hard, rubber boots, moving slowly across a flat surface, creaking beneath the snow piles. from a distance, his eyes identified the outline of a man down the hall. Dressed in thick, winter clothing, brandishing what appeared to be a rifle. He was wearing a white ballistics mask.

"Six o'clock!", Ethan shouted.

His comrades were startled by the warning. But before they could turn around and shoot at the ambusher, their crippled companion instinctively grabbed the nearest weapon he could find: Jordan's own M45 handgun, resting on his right thigh. Sharp muscle memory promptly activated, as the ex-Delta sniper brought out the gun from its holster, cocked the hammer, and aimed down the illuminated iron sights. With a proper bead on the target, he pulled the trigger twice without a second thought.

*Bang! Bang!*

The tango was hit, dropping dead with a screech of pain and a loud thud. It all happened in less than a second.

"Alpha? Was that you!?", Sebastien radioed.

" _Jawhol_. We just took down a straggler."

The ambush was stopped before it was even sprung. Clearly, the team was not yet home free; they had to keep going before any other surviving tango could get the drop on them. Seamus pressed on, with the rest of his team close behind. They came across even more bodies, all belonging to White Mask terrorists who had one or two bullet holes in their heads. They were Team Rainbow's doing- stealth kills, presumably. He let his comrades navigate the winding halls, bulkheads, and one more staircase, until they finally reached the third deck. Presumably, this was where the helipad was located, and sure enough they found the unmistakable, bearded face of Sebastien at the other side. He urged them to hurry up, as snow started to fall.

Seamus started to walk faster, prompting Ethan to hobble even more while supported by Jordan and Marius. They linked up with the others, who were all crouching at the helipad with sound-suppressed weapons raised. One of them was Tina Lin Tsang, singled out by her shotgun, her narrow eyes, and her bangs of black hair hanging freely from her winter cap. Without any delay, she went to the wounded man's side with her hands wrapped around an emergency trauma kit. She calmly instructed Jordan to help her out.

"Set him down here.", she ordered, before turning her attention to her injured comrade. "Let's have a look at you... You're gonna be alright, eh?"

The former search-and-rescue tech of the Canadian Air Force clearly had more medical training. With deft hands, she fashioned a splint and a tourniquet for Ethan's right foot, while administering a field dressing and a dash of morphine wherever appropriate. Unfortunately, she didn't have enough supplies to patch up the rest of his injuries. Another man tried to lend a hand, but he too was helpless without the proper tools. This man was more nondescript, as he was covered head-to-toe with heavy winter equipment and body armor. But the bulky face protector was a dead give away, as did the custom bullpup Pecheneg LMG on his back,. He was as Shuhrat Kessikbayev- Team Rainbow's premier demolisher.

A touching gesture, to see a lot of familiar faces come to the rescue.

"Busker-Two-Four, this is Bravo-Two.", Tina opened her radio. "We are at the primary extraction point. Asset is secured, we are waiting for pick up."

The reply she got was that of another woman. Ethan could faintly recall her voice.

"Busker here... We're still en route to the AO. Weather's been picking up, so we're circling to the ridge, west of your position. ETA five mikes, how copy?"

"Five-by-five, Busker. We'll be waiting."

With evac on the way, Tina resumed on treating Ethan's wounds as best she could. The others, meanwhile, established a perimeter around the helipad to ward off any other hostile who would come their way. Shuhrat propped up his LMG across an overturned container and faced outwards into the snowy plain to the south, whereas the rest had their guns aimed at the other directions. Nobody dared to break the calm that suddenly ensued among them. Just a few more minutes, and they would be home free.

And Ethan could finally get the rest he deserved. He would be out of the Team's roster, that much was certain. His knew his right leg was grievously injured, but he dared not to look at it further. Surely it would be in a pitiful state, but this was the price he had to pay in exchange for his life. If he was given the choice to die painlessly in this frozen hellhole or to survive with life-altering injuries, he would gladly accept the former. Funny, if he was his old self from a few months ago, he would've accepted readily death. Gabe wouldn't have approved of that. Nor would Omar. And Emma...

He turned his eyes away from the horrible thoughts and looked instead at one of the dead terrorists who still had his radio on, beeping on its chest rig. It was buzzing rather faintly as well... as if someone was trying to get a message through...

...

It was a bad sign. Some of the hostiles were still alive, asking a sitrep from their now-deceased comrades.

" _Chyort_ (shit)!", Shuhrat cursed. "Sledge, the gun trucks are back! I see them half a klick to the north!

 _Gun trucks?_

Ethan was puzzled by the message. For some reason, it brought a sense of urgency to Seamus and the rest, prompting them to look at each other in surprise. He looked out to where his teammate pointed and muttered something inaudibly. Then, his voice became filled with worry and urgency as he handed out new orders to everyone in sight.

"All teams! Get inside! Get inside, now!"

They followed his command without second thought, with Tina carrying Ethan by the shoulder and bringing him back into the forsaken ship. Sebastien and Shuhrat stayed behind and let loose with their weapons, shooting at some threat in the distance. Everyone crouched once they were inside, as the Scotsman's squad hunkered behind corners and thick walls.

From out of nowhere, the windows on the deck suddenly shattered into dozens of sharp splinters, startling everyone inside. Snaps of air indicated where bullets had just whizzed by. Then, the room was lit up by bright, yellow tracers, zipping into furniture, bottles, and metal pieces, reducing them to shreds. There a terrifying, unceasing barrage of automatic fire just outside. As if all the world had suddenly decided to shoot at them. In response, the two Operators on the helipad ran back indoors, just in the nick of time before the bullets peppered their position with an endless stream of lead. Sebastien screamed at his comrades at the top of his lungs, while he scurried to get out of dodge.

"Stay down! EVERYONE STAY DOWN!"

The tables were turned in the blink of an eye. They were surrounded. The White Masks had reinforcements.

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** I know some of my readers prefer to have long chapters, but I decided to cut it right here for now. Forget what I said last time;  Chapter 18 will be the second to the last chapter (not yet including the Epilogue), and will be a direct continuation of this part of the story. I'm gonna use what was originally the last paragraphs of this chapter as an opening for the next one, so that's a great deal of work already done. Expect it up in the next few days. Cheers!


	19. Chapter 18 - False Flag

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen - "False Flag"**

* * *

...

The shooting didn't stop.

"Sunovabitch! Get away from the windows!"

Jordan's warning only played a little role, as bullets continued to pour into their little spot on the yacht. Glass, furniture, and other doodads were all violently shot up, the tracers making whizzing noises wherever they went. Much as they wanted to retaliate, Team Rainbow firmly remained behind cover, knowing that their body armor wouldn't do squat against the enemy's firepower. As if the odds were bad enough, Ethan had it worse, for he only had the bloody long sleeves and dark slacks that his comrades found him in, to say nothing of any shield against the cold. Though battered and weakened from the tortures he received earlier, he mustered the strength to crawl next to a pile of propped-up metal panels and hide behind it.

The people shooting at them from afar were numerous and unrelenting. Heavily-armed as well. They must have been packing some serious high-caliber hardware, catching the Operators in a kill zone of crisscrossing lead. To stand up would be a death sentence, but to remain still would be just as bad. It was easy, and natural, for any brave man to feel an ounce of dread against such odds.

"Everyone alright!?", Seamus asked aloud, frantically. "Sound-off!"

His mates turned up the volume, so he could hear them amidst the gunfire.

"Alpha-Two is here!"

"Three, still breathing sir!", Jordan replied.

"Bravo Team is good!", Sebastien shouted. The ceaseless gunfire formed a crack in his usually calm exterior. " _Osti de tabarnak de câlice_ (Jesus fucking Christ)… Do they have miniguns!?"

"No. These ones are firing slower.", Shuhrat commented in a calm voice. "Sounds like they have 'Grishas'. GS 7-6-2s."

As if the lower rate of fire was a silver lining. GShG 7.62mm rotary cannons, normally deployed as nose guns for Russian attack helicopters. Team Rainbow had encountered these armaments before; they were the same guns deployed by the White Masks during the Redmond Siege. Ethan cursed under his breath, as he had seen firsthand how they easily turned FBI MRAPs into metallic pincushions. And it seemed that the same fate was about to befall every unfortunate still hiding inside the Aklark.

"Valkyrie, we have enemy vehicles outside the yacht!", Seamus radioed. "Do we have any assets to get 'em with!?"

"Alpha be advised. Busker's armed with 2-40 Bravos, but they're five mikes out. We're scrambling any assets we can still get our hands on, over."

"Can't you jam their radios!?"

"Negative. I tried tapping into their comms, but they're heavily-coded. Looks like they lifted a page from the CIA's playbook..."

"Fuck!"

Alas, there was no way that Team Rainbow could take the enemy reinforcements head on. Save for the rescue chopper that was en route to their location. And to make matters worse, the White Masks had one more trick up their sleeves. Just as after Seamus hanged up, the radio blared again with Meghan's voice, about to share them with more pressing news. She, too, tried her best to mask the underlying panic in her speech, speaking in a composed and objective manner.

"All teams, all teams… I have eyes on multiple contacts dismounting from the trucks. Counting seventeen, one-seven, tangos on foot headed your way, how copy?"

"Roger that.", Tina replied. "Sledge, heads up! We got company!"

He grunted and muttered something inaudible in response. Then, he motioned a hand to Shuhrat to deploy his wheeled recon robots again. From behind cover, Ethan watched as the heavily-armored soldier whipped out his PDA from his chest rig, pressed a few buttons, then handed it over to the Scotsman. A few finger swipes here and there, and he had a clear view of the oncoming threat. Presumably so, because the look on his eyes implied their situation was about to get worse.

"Bloody 'ell. Those fuckin' wankstains are goin' for it..."

It was time for decisive action.

"...Everyone, check and reload weapons. Stronghold this position and keep 'em off all points of entry… Frost, link up with Charlie Team. Ya know what to do."

"Roger. I'll get the Welcome Mats ready."

She scurried off to the lower decks, but not before detaching a rather large package that was fixed to her backpack. It was a square-ish container, akin to a large briefcase, which contained thick, metal plates that each folded out into large, toothless clamps. Ethan feasted his eyes on the rather strange, custom-made piece of kit; he wondered why the Canadian lady brought something this peculiar for a rescue op.

"Bear traps? Really?"

"Heh. Never been to Hudson Bay have you?", she smirked behind her mask, before disappearing into another hallway with her toys on hand and a shotgun strapped to her back.

 _Hudson Bay?_

Was that where they were? Ethan didn't have enough time to process what she just said, as Jordan immediately brought him over his shoulder again to drag him into a safer position. They crouched near a corner lined with metal barricades, presumably the White Masks' doing. It looked like a hasty patchwork to cover up one of the yacht's broken walls. Come to think of it, the same could be said to the entire vessel itself. Cracks, leaks, and broken seams were in several places, ruined even more by fresh bullet holes and ding marks. It was clear boat had been abandoned in some dry dock somewhere, and was seized by the terrorists for their own purposes.

Again, it was a damn miracle that Rainbow managed to even find him in this tin can. But they weren't out of the fire just yet. After reloading their guns as Seamus ordered, they readied themselves for another fight, fortifying their positions even amidst the torrent of bullets whizzing right above them. While crouched near the stairwell, Jordan and Sebastien topped off their rifles, even going as far as to share some mags to ensure that they both had enough ammo. Shuhrat, meanwhile, propped up his bullpup LMG onto a tiny gap at a torn section of a wall, giving him a clear field of view to the adjacent hallway. Tina was presumably roaming the lower decks and planting her traps. Everything they did was a showcase of Rainbow's resourcefulness and unwavering courage.

Marius, meanwhile, brought out an ADS Magpie from his pack and quickly planted it near one of the windows, careful so as to not be hit by an errant machinegun round. Ever the alert and brash individual, he then took a gander at one of the dead terrorists in the room. It had a shotgun lying nearby, beside a pool of blood. Without fear for his own safety, the German scooched towards the corpse and grabbed the weapon. He racked its ejector port to count the number of shells inside, then loaded a few more from the spare shell holder mounted on the side of the gun.

"Catch.", he tossed the weapon to Ethan, who was surprised by the gift. "It's locked and loaded."

It was a shortened M870, to be exact. A familiar weapon.

"Seriously?!"

"You can still shoot, _ja_? Get to work and watch our backs."

The pompous bastard had a point. Rather than protest any further, Ethan rocked the pump-action with a slight frown and aimed at one of the windows, wary of enemy movement. He took great care to avoid the tracers lighting up the deck.

At this moment, he was a combatant again, not a casualty. Pain and freezing cold continued to grip his body, but he forced his mind not to think them. The air was rife enough with tension, and he couldn't afford to be distracted. Courage replaced fear and agony, as steely discipline took hold over his battered limbs, granting him more strength. If he played his cards right, he and comrades could survive his confrontation, against all odds. He only needed to hold on and strike true. Act like a marksman again. Pray, if that still worked. His friends were counting on him to do his part, and he was not about to let them down. Not this time.

A few seconds later, the distant machine guns suddenly stopped firing. The Operators looked at each other with fierce eyes, all voicelessly telling the same message...

 _Here they come._

Basic fire-and-maneuver tactics, as Ethan's pain-addled mind pointed out. The gun trucks outside were keeping them suppressed all this time, long enough to cover the infantry's advance for the killing blow. Seamus and the rest fell quiet with weapons raised, their ears wary of errant footsteps in the upper and the lower decks. Shuhrat maintained a close watch with his PDAs, while Meghan whispered callouts to the rest of the team via the radio. She must have had a good view of the action, either from the Team's recon drones or from a UAV hovering overhead. She fed them precise information, as expected from a SEAL intelligence officer.

"All teams, you have tangos inside... six approaching starboard... five at port side... The rest are comin' through the rear deck..."

"Roger.", Seamus whispered back. "Charlie-One, you there?"

"Affirmative.", Maxim Basuda replied. "We're at the bottom level. EDDs primed and ready."

A stroke of luck; Team Rainbow's resident ambusher and close range specialist was on their side, no doubt having already prepared a few surprises for the opposition. Ethan briefly wondered who else was on Charlie Team, since he hadn't seen them alongside his rescuers. But that was a moot point considering they were all forced into a defensive position- the proverbial cornered rats.

The pressure was on. Everyone gripped their weapons with tight fingers, ready to let loose a burst of bullets at the first sign of a White Mask foot soldier. It was quiet. The stillness in the air made all other sounds much more audible. Icicles started to fall in some areas, either pointing to a sneaky group of hostiles or the ambient air simply blowing strong enough. The yacht creaked against the water, subtly rocking back and forth. Every breath made was soft and calm, anticipating another round of violence...

…

Then, a faint explosion echoed from below. It was immediately followed by a blood curling scream from some poor sod. He cried for help, for whatever good it did, but was immediately silenced by faint puffs in the wind- the unmistakable sound of a suppressed firearm. Then another chorus came: a blast, a scream, followed by yet another burst of silenced gunfire. It presumably came from the Russian ambusher, camping somewhere with the rest of his squad. There also came the unmistakable sounds of crashing metal and broken bone, which were quickly followed up by a loud shotgun blast. Seemingly a textbook case of a Welcome Mat ensnaring its prey.

"Hostile down in my sector, Kapkan.", Tina reported.

"Understood Bravo-Two. More contacts ahead; let them come."

The opening shots had been fired. Bullets were exchanged from within the hallways and rooms of the lower deck, indicating a fierce new battle. The sounds of close quarters fighting were loud and random; it took quite a while for Rainbow to know that the fight was actually in their favor. But they seemed to know that their friends had everything in control. Rather than rush to their aid without their squad leader's say-so, Jordan and Marius re-positioned themselves to guard other points of entry, while Sebastien kept a close watch on an adjacent window. Everyone anticipated more hostiles to pour into their sector, considering how bad the shooting was turning out for the tango below. A mental timer started to tick, as Rainbow needed only to hold out for five minutes.

Five minutes might as well be forever, though. The gunshots and chaos inside the yacht didn't wane as time went by- as if to tell Rainbow not to get too comfy. True enough, while Sebastien aimed his weapon outwards at non-existing targets, a couple of masked men suddenly appeared into view from the far end of the hall, prompting the bearded Canadian to drop them with his own sound-suppressed C8-SFW. He failed to hit any of them; little did he know that it was an obvious feint…

*Boom!*

A nearby wall suddenly disintegrated, catching him and everyone else by surprise. The blast came from a breaching charge: strong enough to shatter an adjacent window and send shrapnel all over the place. Amidst the shards of glass, Ethan saw a flashbang with a missing safety pin, thrown by another unseen assailant from the outside. His eyes widened and he held off a gasp: a reflex to prepare his body for the grenade's powerful, concussive force.

*Zap!*

But in the nick of time, the Active Defense System planted earlier by Marius earlier flung one of its projectiles into the grenade. One moment, the flashbang was in mid-air, ready to unleash its payload. On the next, it was turned into a lifeless mist of metal shards. Ethan could've sighed in relief, if he wasn't in full combat mode. He anticipated a new batch of hostiles to come into view. And true enough, a few White Masks suddenly emerged from the brand-new hole in the wall. One of the grey-garbed tangos was carrying a riot shield, flanked by a guy with an assault rifle. Two more tangos emerged from the shattered window, realizing that their flashy entry was literally taken out of play.

Little did they know was that their attempt at shock-and-awe only telegraphed their positions to the commandos. They were ready for them. As the White Masks crossed the points of entry, they were immediately met by gunfire from everyone inside. Laser sights indicated the bullets' individual trajectories, the tangos didn't have enough time to gasp in fear. In short order, they were cut down with a torrent of rifle rounds and shotgun pellets, tearing them into shreds, painting the walls and floors with their blood.

Ethan also let loose with his shotgun, wounded as he might be. He had the bead on the enemy totting a riot shield. The first shot from his M870 simply sprayed onto the metallic surface, rather harmlessly. He quickly cycled the pump-action to load a fresh shell, just like in training. The second shot hit at the same place, which was strong enough to force the enemy to lower his guard. The wounded Operator saw an opportunity. Another quick cycle of the pump, another trigger pull. The third shotgun blast sent a deadly spray of buckshot into the terrorist's chest and neck, killing him instantly and messily.

His comrades were so preoccupied with their own targets, they were surprised to see their limping comrade's handiwork unfold.

"Nice one, Ace!", Jordan congratulated.

The attack was quickly repulsed, and the gunfire slowly disappeared in the upper decks. The minutes went by, and the rest of the yacht fell back into silence, heralding the deaths of seventeen more enemy combatants. Seamus took a deep breath and placed a hand on his radio, rearing to make a call. In the meantime, Marius motioned to Jordan to follow him and plug the gap in their perimeter. They went to the stash of metal barricades that was Ethan's initial hiding spot and picked up one of the panels. With his comrade watching his six, the GSG 9 engineer retracted the armor panel, lifting it to chest-level and pushing the piston to embed it into the wall. The hole was secured; nothing short of an RPG can dislodge them from the position now…

That might be put to the test soon. The lull in the fighting didn't necessarily mark the end of everyone's troubles.

*Brrrrrrrrrt*

"Chyort! Get down!", Shuhrat yelled.

A fresh stream of bullets once again erupted from outside. Seemingly realizing that their friends have been killed off, the gun trucks resumed firing into the metal hull- a last ditch effort to eliminate the Rainbow operatives. Once again, Ethan and his mates scurried to cover, with Marius ducking just in time for a barrage to hammer into the reinforced wall he just made. They were dug-in, and thus relatively safe, but they were also sitting ducks. The more time they wasted time being pinned down, the more their chances of a clean escape would slip away from their grasps. Seamus assessed the situation fairly well, as he grabbed his radio again to make a call.

"Frost, ya there?"

"Go, Sledge.", Tina replied after catching her breath.

"Those bloody guns are still active! Can't you do something about 'em?!"

"I have an idea… but Busker's not gonna like it."

"Better that than we get torn to shreds, lass! Do it!"

The airwaves went silent for a while, until it returned with the JTF lady's voice on the horn. She made sure to let her friends hear the conversation, to make sure that they're all in the same page.

"Busker-Two-Four, this is Bravo-Two. What's your position?"

Another woman replied to her.

"We're flying over the ridge now, one mike out. You guys good? I can still hear gunfire from up here."

"Busker, request interdiction strike at grid 0-1-1-5… I have four enemy victors hammering my position with heavy MG-fire. Zero-five klicks north of the yacht, over."

"That's out of range, Bravo-Two.", the pilot responded. "Sure ya got your numbers right?"

"Compensate trajectory: high-forty; left-thirty. Your rounds should hit the mark, over."

"Roger, Bravo-Two. We're comin' in hot."

An air strike, or something to that effect, was coming to help. Thank God. Ethan smiled to himself at the thought of salvation, whereas Tina suddenly appeared from one of the lower hallways, rejoining Bravo Team. Behind her was the full complement of Charlie Team, led by Max. Their arctic commando gear was marred by soot, dirt, and blood. They were otherwise alright. With swift legs, they crouched behind patches of cover, as they navigated the stream of bullets shooting just above their heads.

"I've called them in, Alpha."

"Hah! Finally found some use for that Air Force training, eh?", Sebastien chided his fellow Canuck.

"Now's not the time, French Fries!"

Busker-Two-Four made her presence known after a few seconds. Helicopter rotor blades chopped distinctively amidst the loud reports of automatic fire. Ethan peeked from a broken window, risking his head getting blown off, as he scanned the surrounding tundra for a friendly sign. His prayers were answered soon after, and he chuckled once he saw the Blackhawk appear into view. The chopper came upon the gun trucks' southern flank, presumably catching them by surprise.

"We're over the ridge now.", the female pilot radioed. "Guns ready. Spinning 'em up."

The chopper then swiveled to the side, giving Busker's door gunner a clear field of fire. Soon, red tracers appeared from fuselage and careened towards the gun trucks. They were incendiary rounds, judging from the sparks and little explosions that appeared on the vehicles. The gunner compensated for range, as Tina suggested, since the enemy vehicles' own firepower couldn't hit the helicopter from afar. One by one, the gun trucks exploded in huge fireballs, along with their crews.

The fighting was over.

"Direct hit! Vehicles are toast, Bravo."

"Five-by-five, Busker. Thanks for the assist; we're ready for pick up.", the trapper radioed back, which also prompted her to stand up from cover.

It was the 'all clear' everyone had been waiting for.

"You heard that, lads? Let's move! Move!"

Everyone followed Seamus's orders, all eager to get the hell out of the dodge.

"Come on bro!", Jordan carried Ethan by the shoulder. "Our ride's here!"

The latter winced in pain as he stood up, leaving the shotgun behind. Tina took the other shoulder and carried his weight, while she kept a keen eye on his injuries. Her expression made it clear that she wanted to have a second look at him, since the fighting might have exacerbated his condition even more. But that was a problem to be solved once everyone was clear of the AO, as they first needed to board the helo and leave the blasted place.

All members of Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie converged at the helipad, where Busker-Two-Four hovered from above. It descended slowly and carefully, as the rotor's backdraft blew icy winds onto the Operators' faces. With the crew chief bidding them to come on board, Seamus led the way, but stopped short of the cabin. He motioned Jordan and Tina to head on first, carrying their badly-wounded comrade. The two of them did as they were told and promptly laid down Ethan onto a stretcher. Next to come on board were Bravo Team, then Max and the rest of Charlie. The Scotsman was the last person to hop on, as any leader should. With all people accounted for, the Blackhawk took off, forever leaving the carnage behind them.

"Valkyrie, this is Busker-Two-Four. Rainbow's accounted for and on-board; full headcount. We're headed to Phase Line Zulu now."

"Check that, Busker. Globetrotter-Two is on station for refueling. We'll see you at Bragg."

"I hear ya... Your boss sent us to some weird shit, darlin'. Those trucks we took out had IFFs on them."

That sentence turned a few heads.

"Check. We saw the same thing on our feeds.", Meghan replied. "Tangos must've had false signal strobes to fool our sensors…"

"Why the Sam-hell do they have that?"

"Dunno. Get back home safe, then we'll talk. Out."

Mission accomplished. No round of cheers was shared inside the cabin, but the sighs of relief and exhaustion were enough. Fist-bumps and high-fives were handed out instead, presumably Rainbow's way of celebrating.

Ethan wished he could do the same, but his body prevented him from enjoying the quaint accolades himself. Nor could he express his deepest gratitude to the men and women who saved him from the fire. The pain in his legs returned with a vengeance, having been ignored long enough. He quickly caught the attention of Tina and Jordan, who wasted no time to tend to his wounds in their own little way. It didn't do him much good, true, but it was the thought that mattered. They each brought out a pair of medical shears from their medkits to peel away at layers of cloth, gain better access to the wounds.

And upon seeing his battered legs, Ethan wanted to scream in terror, his guard now lowered thanks to the absence of combat. He was too tired to do so. As Bravo-Two cut open his bloody trousers, she held back a gag reflex at the sight of a mangled, badly-beaten pair of legs. There were splotches of red, black, and blue dotting where his right femur should be; it didn't take an x-ray camera to see that it had been broken in several different places. No doubt done by some blunt weapon. Tina took great care to apply whatever aid she could give, while Jordan spoke something into his radio, presumably a message to their resident intel officer. It was all white noise as far as the former prisoner was concerned; he was finally coming home.

It took the stern presence of Seamus Cowden, crouching beside him, to illicit some sort of a reaction.

"Doing great, aye?"

"How? How did you find me…?"

"A wild guess.", the tall man replied sarcastically. "Our friends in Europe had been cracking down on these bastards ever since Redmond."

"Heh… Is that so?"

"Aye. The Old Man sent a few teams to France, then to Italy. Whatever intel they found, they passed it to us…"

Ethan nodded weakly, pretending to have understood what was just told to him. Looking behind Seamus's shoulder, he saw Shuhrat and Max huddled over an open laptop. It was a peculiar sight, like they were uploading something via a portable wi-fi device. The piles of hard drives resting beside their seat provided a curious clue…

"Valkyrie, our signal is strong.", the hooded Russian spoke into his radio. "Are you getting the files? Did you get anything about tomorrow's summit?"

The woman was rather hesitant to reply.

"I… I'm not sure what I'm getting, man. Why am I seeing coordinates all over the damn planet?"

"Say again?"

…

 _Oh crap_.

Just like that, it dawned on Ethan that Rainbow didn't just rescue him from the White Masks' clutches. They also took the opportunity to gather information from the Aklark, this previously-unknown enemy asset. To find this ship in the middle of Hudson Bay, literally in the middle of nowhere, was a riddle for the ages. However, that was the least of their problems- they didn't know the whole picture. Of course they didn't, as there was a key piece of information purposely kept from them by the enemy. By someone the captured Rainbow agent used to call a friend. Up until now, they were all fed lies and deceptions. It was partly _his_ fault too.

And Max said 'tomorrow'. Another surprise for Ethan: the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit was less than 24 hours away. Using a few remaining bits of his strength, he crawled to the Russian and asked for the radio. Everyone else on board reared to stop him, to bid him to rest, but their concerns fell on deaf ears. There was a sense of urgency painted on his face. He needed to tell Meghan about the files she was seeing on her monitor, presumably thousands of miles away from this cold, dreaded place. He had been a prisoner for far longer than he thought, and Rainbow had been in the blind all this time…

"Valkyrie, it's Ace."

"Ethan! Why are you-"

"Listen to me…", he cut her off. "…Freedom Day. It's a false flag operation. We have to notify all overseas US assets to be on elevated alert for a full-scale attack..."

His words were a startling revelation, causing every Operator in the cabin to stop what they were doing and look to him, ears peeled. It was a bit unsettling to be the center of attention all of a sudden, but Ethan knew his colleagues needed to learn the truth. The Redmond Siege, the stashes of Compound Z, the Aklark's hidden location, the CIA-style subterfuge they witnessed at the battle they just won today…

"…I repeat: the Freedom Day attack is a false flag. The White Masks are gonna strike at targets across the globe, and they will be using American military assets to get close..."

"The fuck? I thought your spook said the bastards are gonna hit Manhattan?!"

Ethan briefly closed his eyes, swallowing a lump in his throat. He was ashamed about his next words.

"She's… she's one of them... Emily has been playing with me all along…"

"What!?"

"Jesus Christ…", Jordan muttered.

All elation in the Blackhawk's cabin quickly evaporated, prompting even the female pilot to look behind her with a worried look, covered by her helmet's tinted visor.

Deception. Team Rainbow had just realized their worst fear come to pass. All the blood they shed and spilt, all the chaos they witnessed in Redmond and elsewhere… were simply the byproducts of an elaborate ruse. And they all fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Suddenly, the security plans on the Summit in New York seemed irrelevant. The battles everyone fought these past few days were ultimately fruitless and they instead paved the way for a surgical strike that they nearly didn't see coming. Imaginations ran wild, trying to picture what he meant by a 'full-scale attack' across the world. Some didn't want to believe his rather fanciful claim, but a collective gut feeling was telling them otherwise.

"…Six-Actual, did you get all that?", Seamus radioed.

The boss-lady made her presence known through the earpiece. And her next words also made it clear that the files sent to her were slowly building a checkerboard of intel, corroborating Ethan's assertion. Enough to shake any iron-willed leader at their core.

"Affirmative... Valkyrie's seeing marks in Krakow, Hong Kong, Okinawa, Rome, Ramstein, Marrakesh… Son of a bitch. I'm calling the Joint Chiefs now."

The list of probable targets brought everything back into focus. If anyone had any doubts that the White Masks were deviously playing a bigger game, then those had been thrown out of the window. But there was still time. Rainbow had just found for themselves a new mission.

"Ace, where is she now?", Meghan's voice came back. "This… 'friend' of yours, will she be leading one of those attacks?"

A tough question, one that the man genuinely had no answer to. He paused for a few seconds, to sift through his memories for any clue that might help. Emily was such an elusive character, even when recalling her in the mind. Hindsight made it clear that every action she made was well-calculated, no matter how small, ever inching towards the greater goal of deceiving him. Operation Witch Hunt, the attack on the Border Control, was a setup for Adam Kipper to escape the Middle East, with Uncle Sam none the wiser. The woman's friendly visits and chatting were there to create the false image of a trusted ally. The Redmond Siege was a diversion, to catch Rainbow into thinking that the White Mask headquarters was in their sights. The dinner at Fayetteville was an opportunity to take down a Rainbow Operator…

…

A eureka moment. She said something to Ethan that night, hours before his capture by Caleb. No thanks to the alcohol in her system.

"London… She said, she was going to London…", he replied to Meghan. "…I-I don't know where she is exactly… But I bet she went ahead with the plan… Something big…"

"*sigh* Okay, check that. I'll get the word out to MI5... I'll have Thatcher's guys suit up as well…"

Time was of the essence. Everyone looked at each other with renewed resolve, as yet another battle loomed over at the horizon, a scant few hours away. The sun shone proudly from above, but it was nothing more than the calm before the storm. It would be nightfall by the time the Blackhawk had touched down at Fort Bragg. At the crack of dawn, it would be another day of reckoning.

Freedom Day.

"…Once we're back home, we're gonna have the docs take a look at ya." Seamus came up to Ethan. "You're out of the roster with those legs."

"I'm fine sir. I still want in."

The latter wanted to be there. He _needed_ to. He knew his friends needed all the shooters they could get, despite what the team leader wanted to believe.

"Don't be stupid, mate. You're in no bloody condition to fight."

But there was more to it than that. Recompense. Ethan needed to make this thing right. Emily was planning something big, and it would be his responsibility to put a stop to it. She brought him into this mess, and it was only right that he would finish it, once and for all. Only then could he say that he earned his keep in this Team. Only then could he say to himself that he did his job, as well as it could be done. Only then could his friends rest easy, knowing that he had given it his all.

"I'm not gonna fight, Seamus. I only need my hands to shoot."

…

* * *

Commonwealth Royal Flight HC-1000  
En route to JFK International, New York

40,000 ft. above the Atlantic

…

The aircraft cruised at a relatively normal and comfortable speed. Turbulence was not as severe as the captain initially assessed, which gave plenty of reason for those in the cabin to engage in other activities. Flight attendants with English accents shuffled across the velvet-carpeted floors, delivering drinks and meals to anyone who seemed famished. Most of the passengers remained at their designated seats and minded their own business. Meanwhile, a few well-dressed men walked along the hallways with radio communicators visible on their ears. These were the Defense Minister's bodyguards- the bulk of their coats suggested they had firearms tucked into their belts.

Security agents, media relations staff, office aides, and the Minister himself. A total of twenty people, headed for the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in Manhattan.

Joining them were members of the US Secret Service, visually indistinguishable from their British counterparts. Black suits and ties, with the only thing marking them out were a pair of jet-black shades to hide their eyes. It was customary for the American government to send a few of their own to help safeguard foreign dignitaries headed Stateside. Today, the destination was Terminal One at JFK. Marching orders were to escort the Minister and his staff through Arrival, then through Customs, then meet up with the advance party at the Marriott. This was a simple VIP escort job, one that the USSS had done countless times before.

Two among those in the black suits sat just outside of the forward cabin's meeting room, where the politicians held an impromptu meeting. The voices coming from within indicated a rather pensive conversation, which was a good sign. The two men turned their female companion, a nondescript in a blonde ponytail, sitting nearby. Unlike the other Secret Service agents, she had her cellphone at the table, idly waiting for a call. No such luck so far. Resting beside her shoes was a heavy suitcase, as she faintly tapped her feet to pass the time. She kept cool as best she could, but the same could not be said to her companions behind her. They were getting anxious. Their buddies on the ground have missed their designated radio check half an hour ago, which felt incredibly ominous.

Worse, their trusted man on the ground had gone dark. Far longer than he should've been.

"Any word from him, ma'am?", one of the agents leaned forward and whispered to her ear.

"No."

"Shit… What now?"

The woman took a deep breath. She kept calm so as to not draw attention her way, and she greatly wished her comrades would do the same. But the fear was palpable at this point. The silence from their friends elsewhere was far too glaring to ignore; it didn't take a genius to think that something had gone wrong. And the longer they stuck thumbs up their asses, the more likely it was for the entire operation to fail. There was enough cause for the woman to consider a different approach. Unfortunately, going through with it would render all of their pre-planning into a massive waste. And their benefactor would not look kindly on their careless use of resources.

But the odds were against them. It needed to happen now.

"Plan B.", she whispered.

"Plan B?"

"It's time. Follow me. And get your fangs on."

The men nodded back. Swiftly and subtly, they motioned to the other agents at the far side of the cabin, who promptly brought out a heavy suitcase from the nearest overhead compartment. They held onto the package as quickly as possible. As expected, nobody batted an eye at them.

Everyone was in position. The woman motioned with her chin, telling her team to move to their designated entry points. At once, they all split up into four groups of three, headed to different directions. One group climbed down the stairs in order to secure the cargo hold, while another proceeded to the rear cabin where the bulk of the passengers were situated. The Minister had requested a few more Secret Service agents to be stationed there, which complicated things. And last but not the least, the blonde woman proceeded to the cockpit, with a couple of her men close behind, steel briefcases in tow. As far as anyone was concerned, they were just doing their rounds, as undercover guards should.

No second was wasted. The woman opened the cockpit's door with one quick motion. Blue eyes stared into the navigator, who was puzzled to see her presence. Before the man could ask why she was in his presence, a silenced pistol had emerged from her hand, aimed at him.

*thwoop*

He gasped and fell to the floor, knocking over his seat as he clutched his wounded chest. The noise caused the captain and his assistant to turn around, only to be met face-to-face with a couple more handgun muzzles, held by two men in black suits. The two pilots widened their eyes in pure terror. Their hands were frozen at the aircraft controls, helpless and shaking. Any move they made would be their last.

"Turn this plane around. Now.", the woman threatened with a finger in the trigger.

Just then, everyone heard faint screams come from other places. The meeting room, the VIP lounge, and the cargo hold. Gunfire erupted quickly, but also fell silent short after, heralding the deaths of British security agents at the hands of the 'Secret Service'. No alarms had been raised, as everyone had done their homework very well. The commotion died down just as swiftly as it started, thanks to well-rehearsed maneuver's and the element of surprise. The hardest part of the mission was over. This prompted the woman to remove the blonde wig she had been wearing all throughout the flight, revealing a tied up bun of auburn hair.

There was no use hiding in plain sight, anymore.

"Arm the explosives."

Her subordinates nodded and followed her others without second thought. Each man opened the heavy briefcase assigned to them, which revealed a circuit of wires, tubes, and large cylinders filled with a yellow substance. Compound Z. The same chemical they used to strike at Massachusetts and Oregon. Several millimeters of the stuff would be enough to kill everyone inside the plane's fuselage. Combined, the sheer volume of poison gas would be enough to shut down an entire grid half a kilometer wide, devoid of life.

That was the plan. Emily Jacobsen only had one chance. Once the plane had returned to Heathrow, she would hand out bullshit demands, designed to inevitably fail. Then, the real battle would begin and a brief window of opportunity could be seized. Failure would mean sealing her fate. Success equated to freedom. It was exactly how she wanted it.

Her father would've been so proud.

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** This one is a little shorter than the previous chapter because this is kinda like Part Two of it. But I refrained from calling it as such since there's the bit of the Presidential Plane's hijacking on the latter half (despite the name, I'm fairly certain that it's a _British_ aircraft due to the 'Commonwealth Royal Flight' painted on the fuselage). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one! I plan to release the last chapter, "Freedom Day", alongside the Epilogue so please be patient. :3


	20. Chapter 19 - Freedom Day

**.**

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen - "Freedom Day"**

* * *

...

No rest for the wicked.

Morning at a workweek in one of America's busiest cities, much like the last time he was here to visit his daughter. Not much had changed. Cars, vans, and pickup trucks of various makes formed a line on the bridge as far as the eye could see. Tempers flared as per the norm, proven by the constant honking of horns and cussing of frustrated city-dwellers. Any attempt to appease them would be in vain, except perhaps a chirpy voice on the radio. The local station still had that same spunky, female disc jockey, always eager to dole out the latest traffic update **…**

 _"~Rise and shine Americaaa, and happy Juneteenth! Time now is eight minutes after seven o'clock._

 _If any of y'all still getting outta bed, well, better double-time it now 'coz we have one HECK of a gridlock this morning! …We've got a bottleneck in the Cross Bronx up until Exit Two, as usuaaaaal... FDR Drive all the way to Queensboro is also moving at a snail's pace; everyone's advised to avoid that area to make way for the international delegation coming to today's Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in Midtown…"_

…

For a moment, the man in the black tactical suit spaced out and absorbed the irrelevant facts, just so he could think of something else. From the way the radio described it, a drive to Long Island at this time would probably take a couple hours. Little Jenny and her mother were just a few miles away. True, they might have not yet returned from their delightful vacation in Hawaii, but it wouldn't hurt to check on their house himself. If he wanted it bad enough, he could ditch his post, hail a cab or limp his way, just to see them again one more time. Say things that he should've said. Make amends as he should've done. There probably wouldn't be another opportunity for him after today. His fate had been intertwined in a conspiracy he should've seen coming.

He had become part of something bigger, ever since he took up that job in the Middle East. Ever since he let himself and his friends be roped into 'another simple mission' with the CIA. After that, the series of unfortunate events kept escalating: from Gabe's death, to the ill-fated robbery in LA, to the bloody confrontation in Redmond, and his capture at the hands of terrorists. Now, it had finally come full circle. A familiar scenario: a small team, perched up in some landmark, manning defensive positions, all the while a massive throng of vehicles honked their horns in collective anger. None of the civvies below were aware that a covert mission taking place, one that could decide their fates forever.

Blissful ignorance would be the best though, as cruel as it sounded. The last thing that the black-clad commandos needed was pandemonium in the streets, as it would achieve the terrorists' plans in a different way. Across the world, tens of thousands of lives would either be saved or snuffed out, and this knowledge brought them even more undue stress. The man begged for his body to remain strong, even for a short while, and carry him through the toughest spots. He wished that his wounds wouldn't slow him down when the time came. He hoped that things would work out for the better, if it ever did, one last time.

Least of all, he prayed for a miracle that the looming doom would simply go away, save everyone the trouble. Alas, the world was not that simple. Nobody else needed to die today.

Today of all days.

...

* * *

Queensboro Bridge, Manhattan, New York  
Day 21

Freedom Day

...

Today was supposed to commemorate the end of slavery in America. Not much fanfare would be expected, much like in any other year. It just so happened that the month's biggest gathering of bigwigs would also take place this day. On the plate would be lengthy discussion policies and commitments, intended to prevent the likes of Bartlett from ever happening again. For the pencil pushers over at DC, the Summit was a momentous occasion that deserved Uncle Sam's five-star treatment. Checkpoints at Brooklyn Bridge and Time Square. K-9 units all over Midtown. Snipers from the US Secret Service, scanning the rooftops.

What better day to make a political statement, written in blood and violence? Emily's men were out there somewhere, waiting for the signal. The stakes could not have been any higher...

...

 _"…In other words, another fine friggin' day in the Big Apple, if I say so myself. But don't worry; if the traffic's gettin' ya down, just remember that there's a light at the end of that tunnel, sweetheart. Chin up and smile! Up next is our Rush Hour playlist, with the newest single from-_

*click*

 _…_

The DJ's words, though encouraging and lively, failed to improve the mood. But at least her enthusiasm proved the calmness prevailing across New York, if blaring car horns and shouting drivers could be considered as such. Clueless civilians would help Rainbow operate clandestinely. It would be easier for a bunch of black-clad troopers to remain inconspicuous, _in broad daylight_ , if the locals were pre-occupied with the humdrum day-to-day. Then again, the same advantage could apply to the White Masks, wherever the hell they were. Win some, lose some.

"Hey, Ethan. Sure you're alright?", Meghan Castellano tapped his shoulder.

Back to reality.

He only nodded as a trite answer, a weak smile strewn across his face from behind the two-hole balaclava. He needed her to believe that he was working at full capacity, despite the truth being the contrary. In all honesty, he needed to go to a hospital. But it was far too late to call it quits now. Far too late to regret volunteering himself for this mission, as his common sense dictated hours ago. Charlie Team had already established its sniping position at the top of a massive steel pylon, one of four structures that line Queensboro Bridge. It would be one hell of a climb to get down from here, even if he was in prime condition.

Now his body was paying the price for disobeying the medics at Bragg. He had been awake for almost 24 hours, he was exhausted. If he closed his eyes long enough, he would fall asleep on his spot, lying in a prone position, peering into a scoped H&K 417. But he had no complaints. Despite fatigue and pain gripping his body, he knew that he should be involved in this op, no matter the cost to his own. A fitting end to his chapter. His involvement with Emily and the White Masks went far too deeply just for him to take a hike. Besides, the day was still young.

"Just say something if you want out, 'kay?", Meghan continued. "There's still time to call the helo to pick us up."

"I'm good. Trust me.", Ethan lied.

The steel base beneath his belly was warm, causing his wounds to tinge slightly. Underneath his black combat fatigues and tactical webbing, his body was strewn with bandages all hastily-applied. Least of all his legs, each of which was held together by makeshift casts and an extra layer of medical dressing. There were also the painkillers running throughout his bloodstream, numbing the constant throbbing from his injuries, but also making him a bit woozy. It was such a frustrating dilemma, choosing between keeping his senses intact for this crucial day and holding back the writhing agony that demanded serious medical attention. A battle was about to take place...

Ethan peered beyond the crosshairs of his telescopic optic. There were so many people headed to Midtown, where the Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit was about to take place in a few hours. The average Joe, of course, would not care much for any of it, their political leanings notwithstanding. For them, the Summit was nothing more than today's source for their headaches on the road, as the incessant barking of car horns would attest.

They didn't know better, but so did their unsung protectors, maintaining an overwatch position high above. Ethan was certain that the White Masks would strike today, but he didn't have the particulars. Exact troop movements, force projections, plans of attack. His only reference were Emily's words, as reliable as a traitor could be. Logic reminded that she should be the last person to trust. She had shown that lies and deceit were truly her stock in trade… and yet a part of him still wanted to believe her. Perhaps it was a gut feeling too, that her one bout of 'honesty' was genuine. That she indeed told him the truth, out of respect to his sense of duty. And so, Team Rainbow was deployed today. The commandos only one objective, one chance at stopping the enemy from enacting their plan.

"Charlie-One, you there?", Ethan felt his earpiece ring.

The voice from the secure frequency belonged to Miles Campbell, manning their field command post back at the Summit venue in Midtown. On account of his wounded shooting arm, the former FBI agent was running command and control together with Seamus and their esteemed Director. For this mission, callsign 'Charlie-One' belonged to Meghan, who also had the job of acting as Ethan's spotter.

"Go, Castle. I hope you have some good news."

"Hong Kong Police are sending units to the US Consulate… Ramstein's initiated an elevated security lockdown… Policia Nacional have established checkpoints near our embassy in Madrid."

"Check that. At least we have progress…"

So far so good. Despite everyone's apprehensions, Rainbow's call to arms was actually heeded by much of the world. Prospective targets had been reinforced and the word came out that hundreds of killers were headed their way. At this point, the terrorists would be at a severe disadvantage should they decide to press on. All they had going for them would be the element of surprise and near-suicidal vigor to enact their plan.

As if that was good enough for a consolation prize.

"…What about Heathrow?", Meghan asked.

The ex-FBI agent's voice was suddenly strewn with disappointment.

"It's a stand-off... Plane's still grounded on the tarmac, cops are surrounding it... Bad guys didn't change their demands since they landed. We still have a total media blackout there."

"Check that. Any confirmation that Emily Jacobsen's on-site?"

"Negative. The bastards have been takin' out our recon drones. Thatcher better kick things off before the reporters start poking 'round."

The situation was far more serious than Ethan thought. While his comrades rescued him from that icy hellhole in Canada, tragedy struck at the skies above the Atlantic. At daybreak, Six had gotten word that the plane carrying the UK's delegates to the Summit had been hijacked. No word on casualties, not much intel to work with, but Rainbow's contingent in RAF Credenhill, Herefordshire were on the case. Ethan didn't need to look at Meghan to know that she was worried about that situation. Despite everyone's preparations, the attack on Freedom Day had already begun _hours ago_. And New York was probably next on the White Masks' hit-list.

"Goddamn press...", the woman cursed. "…What's Rainbow's cover story, just in case?"

"SAS operation. Special Branch volunteered to be our 'face' on this one."

"Pfft. Volunteered? I bet those Brits in Whitehall just want us to owe 'em a favor. Maybe even have Six put their people in the Team to keep an eye on us…"

"You worry too much, girl.", Miles chuckled a bit. "I'm sure the boss lady'll figure something out to please 'em."

"Whatever. Keep me posted if something comes up. Over and out."

Another breath of exasperation escaped from her lips, then it was back to the grim realization of a terrible day ahead. The sniper and the spotter remained silent, letting their minds drift to what-ifs and has-beens, using the clarity of hindsight. Somehow the White Masks knew of the attack on the Aklark: one of their secret bases, and presumably a staging area for the attack in North America. Rainbow's meddling ruined whatever momentum they had built up, but that was only a small hurdle for a determined group of killers. So far, the 'frontlines' had been drawn in New York and London. Two cities, tens of thousands of people, and only a handful of commandos to protect them all. Just one part of a small string of bad news that would undoubtedly get longer.

"Charlie-Three, maintain eyes on the Eastbound lane, we have the West..."

"Roger that, Valkyrie.", Yumiko Imagawa replied.

"…Bravo, can I get a sitrep on the ground? You guys have a better view on the traffic down there..."

" _Da_.", Alexsandr Senaviev radioed back in his thick drawl. "IQ has not detected explosives in vehicles... She says they all look clean so far."

"Check that. Keep your guard up, Your Highness. Holler if you find anything."

Rather than pick up her binoculars again, Meghan pulled out her PDA to sift through the feeds from her portable cameras, pre-placed at strategic positions to monitor suspicious movement below. From the way she swiped the screen, it looked like nothing of import was happening in their area of operations. That wasn't always a good thing in her line of work though; good thing she brought with her a lot of backup.

Charlie Team consisted of her, Ethan, Yumiko, and Masaru; the latter of which opted for this posting since it was safer and "less stressful" than tagging along with Bravo. That squad, led by the Good Lord himself, was crouched near a series of catwalks dangling above the partition between Eastbound and West. Alex, Monika, Max, and Gilles; Bravo Team consisted of heavy-hitters tasked with intercepting any wayward attempt to plow through the gridlock and cause carnage. The three men would do much of the legwork, while they were supported by a maimed American sniper and a trained markswoman from the Aichi Police Special Assault Team. It was by no means a perfect plan, but it was the best that Meghan could come up with given the circumstances. It was either that or pull more men from the Summit venue in Midtown, which would only weaken their security arrangements even further.

Another issue was the rift between Six and the Department of Homeland Security. For some inane reason, she was denied more JSOC and FBI assets to be used at her leisure. A few loose tongues said this was due to an altercation between her and Director Treadway; the timing was incredibly bad if this was true. It was starting to look like Rainbow's presence in the city was one colossal mistake. They would all be in a world of shit if they didn't play their cards right, when the White Masks finally struck.

 _If_ they would ever strike to begin with. Meghan was starting to see the writing on the wall.

"I hope your intel is good, Ethan. I'll be damned if those maniacs strike somewhere else, while we're out here doing nothing."

"What, you're having doubts now?", he scoffed at the woman.

"Maybe you shouldn't have listened to that turncoat-spook of yours."

"And maybe _you_ should call in that chopper after all. Never pegged you to be a chicken..."

"Fuck you. You have another thing coming if you think you're gonna lone wolf this one, D-Boy."

"Hah! For a minute there, I thought you're getting soft on me..."

Vitriol between two professionals. Ethan smiled at her persistence and willingness to accompany him. Whatever misgivings she had with him were most definitely shelved for later. And for an esteemed Intelligence Officer, she uncharacteristically went with his idea today, rather than with charts and cold-hearted logic.

And that idea came from a hunch, just a little one, that the White Masks would strike from where Rainbow least expected it. Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan Bridge, Williamsburg… all of them were obvious points of entry that the security plans had already prepared for. The same plan that Ethan had idiotically given to that turncoat Emily Jacobsen, not too long ago. Now that the terrorist-infiltrator had been told about this information, it would make sense for her friends to adjust their game. And Queensboro made the most sense. The Bridge was far enough to be overlooked as a backdoor, but also close enough to the target area if one had the will to overcome the morning rush hour. If anything, the congestion of vehicles in 59th and 60th would allow the bad guys to blend in better, thanks to the lack of police checkpoints in these areas.

All of this effort, just to force Congress to pass the Enhanced Domestic Defense Act? That traitorous redhead's justification was incredibly difficult to comprehend…

 _Why did you this? Why?_

Ethan wanted to be the one who would end her wretched life. But that opportunity wouldn't come today. The waiting was painful, in more ways than one. Each minute that went by without incident was another sixty seconds worth of numbing and aching in his body. He could be swimming in painkillers at this point and he would still feel like death. And the more he laid flat on his stomach, aiming into a rifle with no targets in sight, the more he felt like a complete fool. If Gabe was still alive, he would've already chewed him out for his misplaced sense of bravado. If Emma was with him instead of the blonde, she would crack jokes at his expense and call him an idiot. Both would nonetheless support him, all the rest of the way. Their absence emphasized just how much help he needed right now. He had to remain strong.

He scanned the sightlines for targets, as a sniper should. Every vehicle he saw had a different set of passengers. A white collar office worker. A young couple driving to work together. A family about to drop their kid at the local school. Frustrated utility workers caught up in the jam. A bunch of meatheads banging their heads to some tasteless music, presumably. Plus, scores and scores of nondescript faces behind windshields, all cursing the morning rush hour like any New Yorker should. Then the cops, who were very easy to spot with their fancy shades, dark clothes, and grim faces…

…

"Meg?"

"What is it?", she asked back, her eyes glued to a pair of binoculars.

"...I have eyes on three NYPD vehicles below. Westbound center-lane, behind the red Toyota. Thirty cars away."

She turned her head to that direction while the sniper scoped in; both people were relieved for the break in silence. There were a lot of vehicles to comb over, but the anomaly was easy to spot. It was way, way back in the queue, sticking out like a sore thumb.

"Got it. I see 'em."

Three Ford Explorers, painted in blue and white, with the hood adorned with the brass shield of the New York Police Department. They were neck-deep in the congestion, with barely a few inches of space between them, and their sirens noticeably silent. The three cars were out of Bravo's visual range, so there was no way for Charlie to ask for another opinion. Then again, that might be not necessary at all, as it was expected for the NYPD to have roving patrols at this time of day. Especially with the Summit venue just less than a mile out. It made sense for a bunch of cops to get caught up in the city's dreaded traffic...

 _There's something wrong._

...Except that these people seldom do that, if at all. The dispatchers had been working nonstop since this morning, advising patrol officers on what areas to avoid, to get units through the morning gridlock as soon as possible. And for three NYPD cruisers to be stuck in a bind, so close to each other, at this time of day? Were they in a convoy or something? If they were, what were they carrying? Why were the security forces not informed of it? The presence of the errant squad cars didn't add up.

"Did we call for reinforcements?", Ethan asked his partner. "There shouldn't be any more NYPD headed Downtown, correct?"

"You're right… Charlie-Three, shift your view to Westbound. Three NYPD victors at the far end of the queue. You see 'em?"

The Japanese woman took a second before she radioed a response.

"Acknowledged. We got them on scope."

"Check. Keep eyes on. I have to call this in, just in case."

A switch flipped, putting everyone in Charlie Team on combat mode. The sniper felt a pang of dread but kept his cool, all the while the blonde woman beside him activated her radio again to contact Miles. Their conversation went by the numbers, at which the words just became white noise to Ethan's ears. He had a more important job. The three cars barely moved at all thanks to the traffic, giving him the perfect opportunity to inspect them more thoroughly. Adjusting the zoom level of his rifle scope, he realized that the three Explorers had their windows lightly tinted. But the cops were there, donning the usual uniform and behaving as he expected, seemingly chilling out. The front vehicle was suspect, however, since its passengers looked on edge. They were all wearing sunglasses.

The tension was quite palpable in the air. Charlie Team watched over their sectors, looking for anything amiss with the vehicles their scopes zeroed in on. Bravo did the same with their electronics detectors. All of them had their fingers on their weapons, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble. Seconds seemed like minutes at the absence of action, but it was clear that the day was about to rear its ugly head. Sweat started to bead in the Operators' foreheads, least of all Ethan who felt his body ache in anticipation of violence.

"...Are you sure Castle?"

The ex-Delta sniper's concentration did not break as Meghan continued to speak over at the radio.

"I've got the Commissioner with me, Valk.", Miles replied. "You wanna talk to him? ...Is there something wrong?"

"No… No, I hope not. I-I'll call you back..."

The anxious tone of her voice only highlighted the proverbial evil in the air.

"…Bravo, be advised: Charlie has visual on three unknown victors, Westbound center-lane, about twenty cars away from your spot. They're NYPD."

"Police cars?", Monika radioed back. "…I didn't know we had backup headed our way."

"No, we aren't getting any... Those cops are somewhere they're not supposed to be…"

The last sentence would be a massive red flag to any experienced counter-terror operative, least of all the towering Gilles Touré. No doubt that he and his friends had already switched their safeties off, as that was exactly what Charlie Team did. Ethan, designated Charlie-Two, remained composed and concentrated as he placed crosshairs on top of the suspicious vehicles. He rested his shooting finger on top of the trigger, exerting just the right amount of pressure to keep it from pulling all the way. While he had good reason to suspect the cops' presence, there was just a good chance for him to be wrong as well.

A few seconds went by with nothing but his slow heartbeats to listen to. It was like a slow, boring test of patience as the he, Meghan, and Yumiko watched out for any errant movement from the cops. A quick check at the shooting conditions told Ethan the vehicles were about 500 meters, or some 550 yards, from his position. Close enough to fall within his 417 marksman rifle's effective range. The wind was blowing faintly, east to west, so there was no need to compensate trajectory. Shooting angle was a little over 50 degrees. At this distance, every trigger pull would result in a round flying true, flying into its target. The only real obstacle was the abundance of civilians on the bridge- arguably a sniper's worst nightmare.

 _Uh oh._

And it was about to be realized. Without warning, the lead police vehicle began to maneuver out of the traffic jam, coming dangerously close to hitting the red Toyota in front of it. Its two partners also followed suit, weaving into an opening they saw in the congestion, cutting off the poor sods who were just right behind them. It was a brash and strange behavior from the cops, given the context. It also provided more evidence that there was something amiss. Road rage was a given in New York, but this was too… sudden. Unprovoked.

"Valkyrie, the policemen are forcing their way out of the traffic...", Yumiko radioed. "...That does not look suspicious to you?"

"Hell yes it does."

"What are we waiting for then?", Ethan asked. "I have a bead on them."

"Rules of engagement, idiot. We ain't allowed to shoot them unless…"

Meghan's words turned into a gasp at that instance. From her binoculars, she saw one of the passengers in the front vehicle cradle an automatic weapon from under his seat and hoist across his chest. The driver followed suit with an SMG. Yet another sign that something was off.

"Gun!", she reported. "Gun, center lane!"

There was no way that an ordinary beat cop would get their hands on that kind of hardware. Not to mention would they be allowed to wield them in such a crowded location. The light window tints on the police vehicles meant that a few nearby drivers and passengers saw what they were packing. A few heads turned, dumbfounded at the sight of heavily-armed law enforcement in their midst. Most paid them no heed and went about with their business. Meghan was having none of it. The rest of her teammate took aim at their own initiative, freeing her the time to talk to her earpiece.

"Six-Actual, this is Charlie-One at Queensboro.", she spoke calmly. "We have eyes on three NYPD vehicles, occupants armed with non-standard automatic weapons… They're acting restless; Police Dispatch has no comms on them. What's the call here?"

She didn't have to wait for Rainbow Six to reply…

While Meghan spoke through her headset, the lead Ford Explorer once again weaved across the traffic like it owned the road. This time, its fender crunched into the red Toyota's rear bumper, firmly lodging itself in there. A collision. Within seconds, the driver of that car left his seat in a fit and made his way to the police vehicle, fuming. It looked like he was about to enter into a shouting match, as any angry person would. But as Ethan observed the altercation, a passenger from the cop car pulled out his own automatic weapon: an olive drab Steyr AUG. This was no ordinary confrontation.

"Son of a bitch!", Meghan cursed. "Take the shot, Ace!"

The cops were not behaving like they were supposed to. And their latest stunt was the last red card that Ethan was looking for. He wasted no time and pulled his trigger finger all the way, letting loose a 7.62mm round into the fray, with the sound-suppressor masking the shot. The bullet found its way into the lead vehicle's engine block, impacting with a loud crunch and disabling it. It was meant to be a warning shot, to dissuade the van's occupants from further indulging in undue aggression. But instead, they became even more aggravated. Within seconds, the man with the assault rifle pointed his weapon at the civilian, preparing to fire. Whether it was a reflex or a bout of rage, it sealed his fate to the sniper, perched up high.

*Thwoop*

The bullet went straight into the heart of the 'cop', killing him instantly. His friends scurried into action with weapons drawn, emerging from the vehicle with lethal intent. The other two police vehicles followed suit; their passengers dismounted bristling with weapons.

"OH SHIT!"

The polite and cordial Yumiko suddenly cussed, mirroring her friends' reaction to the scene. Like trained professionals, the disguised policemen took only a second to hoist their guns, take aim, and unleash a hail of bullets to their left and right. They fired indiscriminately at innocent commuters and drivers, with the full intention of literally shooting their way out of the jam. Windshields were immediately shattered and stained with blood, horns were left honking thanks to lifeless corpses pressing into them. Charlie Team wasted no time retaliating just as fast. The enemy had finally revealed themselves.

As Ethan suspected, the White Masks were _here_.

"All teams, all teams we have contact! Targets on Westbound, disguised as NYPD! Bravo, move through the catwalks and flank 'em!"

"Roger that Valkyrie!", Alex replied in a loud voice.

In short order, Queensboro Bridge erupted into a mess of screams as people ran for their lives or hurried into cover. A few of them fell over dead just as they were about to leave, gunned down by the remorseless killers. But to Ethan, the bastards were sitting ducks to his crosshairs. They didn't even know where he was, leaving him to drop them dead with impunity. At this point, they knew the gig was up. Their attempt to infiltrate New York had become a vicious gun battle instead.

As he unleased controlled, precision shots, the sniper observed Bravo Team move into position. Well-drilled maneuvers, moving from cover to cover, just as the simulations conditioned them. But the enemy saw their approach and opened fire, sparks and ricochets flickering at their surroundings. Alex signaled his men to take cover as bullets plinked at the steel beams and grates, missing their bodies by inches. It was clear that they needed help, even though they still managed to exchange fire with the tango. Ethan and Meghan knew what to do.

"Ace, visual on one tango, hiding behind that blue sedan. You see him?"

"Wilco..."

*Thwoop*

"...Tango down."

A center mass hit; the bad guy was already dead before he hit the asphalt. His friends panicked and began to shoot into the source of the bullet, but they missed their mark by a wide margin. It only provided Bravo Team with the opening they needed to eliminate the bad guys. From Ethan's scope, he watched closely as Alex and Max let loose with their SMGs, firing precision bursts at the targets who were still distracted. One by one, they fell down and remained still on the ground, lifeless. With the threats now dealt with, Bravo emerged from cover and started their climb down into the roadway below, amidst screaming civilians and all hell breaking loose. Along the way, Charlie Team provided them with much needed suppressing fire as Gilles erected his shield for added defense while the two Russians took cover behind a fire truck.

The situation was critical. Meghan needed to get the word out.

"This is Charlie-One at Queensboro. We have Code Red at the bridge. I say again, Code Red at Queensboro Bridge. We are engaging multiple contacts in our AO, targets dressed as police. Requesting all Blue Force callsigns to assist when able, over."

"Understood. Dispatching QRF now. ETA five minutes."

They would need all the help they could. By Ethan's estimates, there were about twenty White Mask shooters scrambling all over the bridge, up against seven brave men and women from Team Rainbow. Considering that there were a lot of civilians on site, the good guys were at a huge disadvantage. There were two dilemmas again: save the noncombatants and risk being killed by the enemy, or focus on the enemy and risk more innocents to die in the crossfire.

"All teams, all teams. Watch your fire! We have a fuckton of civvies on our lines of sight! Bravo-Two, double-check your targets and confirm!"

The Frenchman who bore that callsign was not at all pleased with the obvious statement.

" _Putain de merde_ (Fucking hell), we know that!"

"I can't get a clear shot, Valkyrie. We need to get those people out.", Yumiko also radioed, albeit in a calm voice. "Recommend we rappel down there and support Bravo, over."

Pressure was mounting on the snipers to make a move. Ethan contemplated on staying behind to provide cover fire while the two Japanese cops rappel down and give their friends some personal backup. This course made a lot of sense, since his body was in no condition for a straight fight. But before he can open his mouth, his scope gave him a chilling discovery.

Amidst the ding of battle ravaging all around, a tan-skinned fellow had somehow stepped out of the rear police vehicle. He was wearing a dirty grey hoodie and pair of blood-stained jeans. His hands were joined together with handcuffs. His dark hair and beard were all shaggy. His face was strewn with bruises and his eyes were filled with terror. He looked like a civilian, but the getup was quite familiar. Ethan had seen him before- recently, in fact.

He could not believe his eyes.

"That's Adam… Adam Kipper!"

"Say what!?", Meghan exclaimed. "Ace, are you sure?"

"I'm positive..."

Ethan could recognize that pencil neck anywhere after what he did to him in that godforsaken ship. His last memory of Adam was of that Caleb-guy choking him out, amidst Emily's cold remarks on his usefulness. She said that she intended him to be 'delivered' to the authorities- was this what she had in mind? Thought dead, but actually alive and well, Adam's sudden appearance had just given the mission a rather unwelcome twist, further complicating things.

"...Oh shit."

But then, Ethan scrutinized the man's clothes, as if he missed out a crucial detail. There was something worn over it: a crude military-style vest, lined with white blocks of solid material and a metallic yellow canister on his waist. It was all covered by wires and cables, with one strobe light flickering on and off like a siren. Adam's hands, which were bound together, were actually interlocked around a small, innocuous looking device. It was shaped like a joystick, with a bright red button at the top. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it was.

"Hold that thought, Charlie-Three.", Meghan radioed, with as much calmness as she could muster. "All teams, we have a visual on Target: Mohandes in the AO, Westbound center-lane, near the police cars. Be advised, he has a suicide vest."

That message sent chills down everyone's spines. So engrossed at stopping the enemy with bullets alone, Team Rainbow did not bring their bomb disposal equipment with them this morning. The only ones who did were their comrades at the Summit venue in Midtown. Ethan gave the threat a second look and made some hasty calculations. He had seen all kinds of explosives in his time to know that Adam was carrying an incredibly powerful payload. Why the sleazy scumbag suddenly decided to be like a goddamn martyr was beyond him, but it didn't change the fact that he was now more dangerous than the psychos with guns at the Bridge with him.

"Shit. That guy's packing a lot of C4! We have at least a hundred civilians on the kill radius!"

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!", Meghan advised him, rather frantically. "He's holding a deadman's switch; he's rigged to blow!"

She was referring to that detonator on Adam's hands. That meant that a bullet to the head would be a bad idea. Ethan cursed under his breath, realizing that his expertise would only do little in this situation. And if his suspicions about that yellow canister hanging by the vest were correct, then the Team was facing an even _greater_ danger. A chemical strike, like these maniacs had been telegraphing all this time. Just like in Bartlett. Just like Redmond. The White Masks had really put a lot of effort with their attack in New York, and the Rainbow troopers suddenly felt undermanned and ill-equipped for the task.

"Valkyrie, we have four hostiles coming out of the rear vehicle.", Monika called out. "Give us support! We are pinned here!"

"Roger that. Get your dope on, Ace…"

One problem at a time. Ethan heeded Meghan's order and reloaded his 417 marksman rifle; Yumiko and Masaru did the same. With a deep breath, he peered into his scope again, ready to fire. His crosshairs saw a scene of complete chaos, with civilians and terrorists running around. All sorts of vehicles were shot up and left to rot under the sun. Glass shards, bullet cases, and bloodstains littered the streets, further driving home the battle's intensity. With his spotter all focused on her binoculars, the sniper was ready to go to work, awaiting her callouts. Sweat started to form in his forehead. Today, his targets were disguised police officers.

"...Left-side lane, running past blue pickup…"

He immediately saw the tango darting to the road, donning the dark colors of an NYPD patrolman and cradling an SG 552. Ethan aimed the reticle just right above the terrorist's tactical vest, to bypass any body armor he could be wearing. The sniper held his breath to calm his muscles, as he quickly calculated the best trajectory for his bullet. In the next moment, he jerked his finger on the trigger, and the bad guy immediately fell flat on his face.

"Done."

Moving on.

"...Center-lane, one hostile coming out of the black sedan. Ten cars deep…."

Ethan repeated his ministrations and aimed at the target: another armed tango, running past abandoned vehicles. The policeman disguise was no longer useful, nor did it help protect him from the 7.62mm bullet aimed at his head. The inevitable blowback would form a bright, disgusting stain on the pearl-white camper van behind him.

*Thwoop*

"Got him."

"...Twelve meters down, to the left…", Meghan continued. "…I have two behind the red SUV."

The sniper scanned the scene and found another set of targets. One terrorist was taking potshots at Bravo Team while his partner crouched and moved past a hulking sports utility vehicle; it was a flanking maneuver. The bad guys were not as stealthy as they thought they were, though, as Ethan immediately aimed at the prospective flanker and neutralized him with a round through his cranium. The other shooter was completely unaware of what befell his friend, making him an easy picking for another center mass shot. The range was about 300 meters…

*Thwoop*

"They're down.", Ethan reported, on account of two fresh corpses drenched in blood. It was good news to his spotter's ears.

"Good kills, Ace. Bravo, you're clear!"

" _Danke_ (Thank you)! We're moving on!"

From Charlie Team's vantage point, they could see Alex use hand signals to his teammates, prompting them to abandon cover and continue their advance. Up ahead, they were met with gunfire from other hostiles, but that was quickly dealt with by the experienced Operators. It was a slow and methodical process to resist the torrent of bullets, fight back, and ensure that no stray round would hit an innocent civilian. The terrorists, on the other hand, did not have any qualms about unleashing lead on anything that moved, whether they be the approaching Rainbow troopers, or a few unfortunate souls caught in the crossfire. To Charlie Team's quiet horror, most of the lifeless bodies they saw on their scopes were from noncombatants, despite their best efforts to prevent the carnage from escalating.

The full brunt of the attack was realized when they heard faint rumblings from the distance. At first, the sounds were drowned out by the cacophony in the background, but they resounded a second time with a vengeance. It prompted Ethan and his teammates to look to their right. There were plumes of smoke dominating the skyline. Then, the airwaves came to life with Miles Campbell on the other end. This time, there were no ambiguities as to his state of mind.

"Charlie-One, come in!"

"Castle, what the hell happened!?"

"Car bombs just went off over at Williamsburg! We're rerouting our QRF there! Can you hold?"

"Jesus fucking Christ! It's the Wild West down here!"

This was no time to quarrel. While Meghan fought at the radio, Ethan watched through his scope as Gilles led Bravo Team into the carnage, with a revolver on one hand and a shield hoisted by the other, taking out targets as they saw them. Behind him, Max and Monika laid down suppressing fire with their automatic weapons, while Alex quickly dragged away any beleaguered civilian he came across. 'Lord' became a fitting euphemism as he risked life and limb for to an innocent stranger. An office worker. A family and their kid. A young couple. A pair of utility workers cradling their wounded friend. Despite the trouble erupting elsewhere, Charlie Team continued to lend support, knowing that dozens lives were on the line. Ethan kept firing with his 417, relying on his own pointers, while Yumiko sent bullets down range with her Howa rifle as well.

"Aww shit… the bomber's still up."

"Where is he, Ace?", Meghan asked.

"There! Behind that yellow cab. Right-side lane."

Adam Kipper. Ethan was able to single him out even amidst the chaos; he would've looked like another bystander if it weren't for the apparatus stuck to his chest. The poor bastard was completely terrified and out of his wits, markedly different from the pompous bravado he showed Ethan in the Aklark. But he withheld his contempt for the terrorist; Adam was a literal ticking time bomb, ready to blow and take dozens of lives with him at the slightest misstep. Even if Charlie and Bravo Teams were able to kill every tango they saw, there was still the matter of the chemical explosive to deal with. An entirely different problem on its own.

And the worst was yet to come. From the corner of Ethan's eye, he saw movement at Queensboro's outer roadway. A black Fortuner had rammed its way through the lines of abandoned vehicles littering the street, nearly running over a few panic-stricken civilians. When the van ground to a halt, several masked men with grey hoodies and white-garbed faces stepped out of the vehicle, weapons at the ready. The sniper counted at least five of them before they disappeared from view, presumably on their way to rappel to the upper level. That was where Bravo Team was located, thick in the fighting. The White Masks had brought more men to the front. Emily sure wasn't lying when she alluded at the scale of the attack…

"Bravo-One! Be advised: you have company headed your way! Five tangos, southwest of your position, over!"

" _Chyort_!", Alex cursed. "We will move to intercept! Cover us!"

"Don't worry Bravo; I got you covered.", Yumiko boasted. "Keep you heads down."

The Japanese woman released single-shots from her rifle, taking out or keeping down the targets she saw in her ACOG. This helped Ethan focus on the bigger threat: Adam and his bomb. Meghan also zeroed in on the man and observed his movements. It appeared that 'Mohandes' was darting in out of cover, headed down the road, but consciously avoiding Bravo Team's presence. Curiously, the terrorists who were supposed to be on his side paid him no heed. It was clear as day that he was escaping, but they didn't even bother to shoot him. Or maybe he had a different purpose? A destination?

The emergence of enemy reinforcements gave Alex and his comrades no other choice but to rappel into the outer roadway, fight in close range. Just like that, there was no Rainbow operative on the ground to engage the bad guys on the main thoroughfare, to say nothing of the suicide bomber who was trying to escape the chaos and head to the Eastbound lane. Adam was having the worst, living nightmare imaginable. If he was headed somewhere, he was looking for the safest route to get there. That alone spelled trouble for Meghan, who realized the need to stop him before he could unleash his payload on the Bridge. Or worse, somewhere crowded in New York, just like in Williamsburg. Perhaps the Summit itself. She stood up from her prone position, a brave statement in of itself.

"We need to get down there and stop Mohandes. Disarm the bomb."

"We don't have enough guys, Charlie-One.", Masaru radioed her, the very first time for this battle. "We cannot cover every inch of this bridge!"

"Fuck, I know… I'm going in."

"Eh? By yourself!?"

"Just watch my back. I'll make it!"

"I'll come with you.", Ethan blurted out.

It earned him an incredulous stare from his spotter, her green eyes making contact with his grey ones.

"What!? Are you insane!?"

"Don't have time to argue, Meghan! You need my help. Just get me down there!"

He punctuated his words with a stare of his own, vigorously burning away any doubt that remained. He was determined to see this through. He knew that if they didn't stop Adam, the White Masks would've succeeded in their plan. Whatever the hell that might be. Their intentions for this battle were made clear. The enemies were bait, albeit well-trained and very dangerous in that regard. It was the vaunted 'Mohandes' himself who was the real threat all along. The woman wanted to spout another protest, but she understood her partner's conviction. She recognized that going at it alone would be a bad idea.

"Goddamn. If you break your legs, it's on you!"

She reached out a hand, which Ethan grabbed earnestly to pull himself up from a prone position. Immediately after that, he felt his legs come to life with blistering pain, even with the anesthetics supposedly keeping it bay. He winced and grunted behind his mask, but he did not protest any further. He used every bit of strength he had left to remain upright, while Meghan fixed a line for herself. She then motioned to him to pick his rifle up as she cocked the charging handle of her MPX, previously slung across her back.

"You ready?"

"Let's do it.", he replied.

He wrapped a shoulder across her back, as she did hers, then they promptly began their descent from the pylon. Meghan's mannish arms provided enough strength to carry two people in due haste. At regular intervals, she loosened her grip on the abseiling rope to help her climb down. Each moment that she planted her boots onto the steel surface of the bridge's pylon was a moment of agony for Ethan's battered legs. He endured it all, for the sake of finishing the mission. Within a few seconds from leaping off their sniping position, the two Operators were on street-level, ready to give chase.

"Argh!", Ethan grunted as his legs throbbed while he stood up.

*Ting! Ting!*

"Get down!"

Two bullets missed his noggin by a few inches, hammering the steel frame of an abandoned pickup truck instead. Meghan shoved him into cover while she returned fire with a quick burst from her 9mm submachine gun. It didn't work. The rounds continued to hit their position with vicious abandon. It sounded like there were at least three shooters coming to take them down. A quick glimpse thanks to a lull in the shooting allowed the woman to peek behind cover. To her horror, they were being assailed by another GSh machinegun. The same as Redmond, the same as the Aklark. Such heavy firepower was enough to keep the two Operators suppressed for a long period of time. They were sitting ducks, waiting for a couple of killers to circle around and finish them off…

*Bratatatatatatatatatatat*

That is, until the distinctive tattering of _another_ machinegun came to their rescue. The blonde woman was just about to call for Yumiko to back them up, when the distinctive reports of automatic fire of Alex's DP-28 erupted from the distance.

"URRRAAAAAAAAA!", he yelled over the radio.

It was unbelievable, causing both Ethan and Meghan to smile in astonished relief. The brawny Russian's war cry was filled with bluster while he cut down his friends' would-be attackers. Bullets tore into the GSh mount and its gunner, filling the asphalt with brass cases and the air with screams of terror. The poor bastards didn't stand a chance; their failure to spot another Rainbow operative had costed them their lives, courtesy of a Soviet antique mounted on an old tripod.

"Valkyrie, you're good to go!"

"Excellent timing, Your Highness. Much obliged!", she commended him.

"Charlie-One, check your six o'clock.", Yumiko also radioed. "We're rappeling down to your position now."

"Check that, Hibana. Take over here and get these civvies safe!"

" _Wakarimashita_ (You got it)."

"Come on, Ace. On me!"

With that, he stood up again and emerged from cover, as much as his legs didn't want him to. He followed his partner as she darted to the Eastbound lane, consciously weaving between behind motionless cars and taxis makeshift shields. The incessant gunfire and screaming all throughout Queensboro Bridge didn't cease. They served as a reminder that the battle was not letting up, and the black-clad commandos were still in harm's way, more so since they virtually had no reinforcements. Easy prey for another squad of tangos who could strike from another direction.

And sure enough, a couple of 'cops' from down the road started taking potshots at them. Meghan rushed into cover, while Ethan saw them and raised his rifle, resting it on the hood of a white sedan. He scoped in as fast as he could, then pulled the trigger when he had a clear shot. One bullet cracked open the head of a disguised terrorist, prompting his partner to run for cover. He wasn't fast enough, and was also dead meat for the experienced sniper.

"Tangos neutralized!"

The problem was quickly dealt with, but there was no time to celebrate the quick victory. With no more enemies to contend with, Eastbound was bereft of activity and life, save for one Adam Kipper who was trying to get away. Upon seeing the two commandos dangerously close to his heels, he ran faster and more vigorously, whimpering along the way.

"Stop where you are!", Meghan shouted.

The frightened man didn't listen. This prompted the SEAL to fire a warning shot to his direction, missing his femur by a few inches. It was crude and hasty work, despite her earlier warning not to shoot at him, but it was enough to get his undivided attention. Adam turned around with the look of desperation, seemingly awaiting his fate. When Ethan finally caught up, he almost felt pity for the bastard.

"I give up! I GIVE UP!"

What was done to him was quite heinous. He had bruises and cuts in almost every piece of unprotected flesh, indicating that he was tortured earlier. By his own people no less. Wasn't he their ally? Perhaps the fact that Adam was a 'terrorist-for-hire' could shed some more light. He was a mercenary, after all, plying his expertise in WMDs. By definition, he wouldn't have any true loyalty to the cause. Perhaps Emily had known this and wanted to get rid of him, as soon as she and her friends had gotten what they wanted from him. In true devious fashion, they opted for the most inglorious way possible to put an end to him.

It was what Ethan had suspected. This guy was _forced_ to become a living bomb. The yellow canister attached to his vest was a good indicator of that. It was ironic that the man who provided a potent poison for a callous group of people would also fall victim to his own concoction. That, plus a couple pounds of C4 wrapped across his chest would easily mark him as expendable, despite his smarts. A truly terrible way to go, even though he deserved it for all the kids in Bartlett he helped murder.

"Hold it right there Adam! Stay calm, we won't hurt you…"

The bomber immediately recognized his voice. It was enough to change his demeanor. Previously dead set on getting away, he was now begging for their aid.

"Mallory? YOU! Help me! Please!"

While Meghan kept her gun raised, her comrade analyzed the contraption in front of him. Crude but complex, exactly what the White Masks' handiwork was about. Another switch was flipped in his brain; it was time to save a life.

The device on the poor guy's torso was a mess of wires and cables. Even if Ethan had sufficient explosives disposal training, he wouldn't know where to start. Should he go for the detonator? Should he try to remove the wires from the C4? With this much crap to work on, it was safe to assume that the contraption also had fail-safes to stop any conventional approach. One wrong move could set the device off and send them all to the afterlife. The best he could do was to adopt a methodical approach, even though it looked like he did not know what he was doing. Rainbow had to wait for backup in the meantime; as far as Meghan knew, their friends were still racing to the scene. They were perhaps a couple of minutes away. Two minutes might as well be forever if a bomb was on play.

"Castle, we have situation at the Bridge. Can you dispatch us a bomb squad?", she radioed.

Ethan didn't pay heed to her conversation, instead focusing on the task at hand and pulling out his wire-cutters. He was careful not to touch anything that looked sensitive, lest he would make a fatal mistake. Adam, on the other hand, was understandably panicky. The beeping was only getting into his skin, reminding him of his own mortality. The sniper had to dissuade him from acting erratically; a tall order at that.

"Don't move idiot! If I slip, we're all dead!"

"Okay! You got this right? Right!?"

"Just shut up and let me work."

"Oh man, thank you! Thank you! Help me out, and you can take me to whatever jail you want! I-I'll take anything! Plea bargain, extradition …I'm gonna tell you everything I know, I swear! I'll help you find that fucking bitch!"

Emily. Ethan felt his blood boil at the offhand reference to his former friend, but he kept himself calm. He would not repeat the same mistake that he did with Leonard Fausse. And knowing that a high-value target would have intel on the rest of the White Masks' operations, it gave him more incentive to save this bastard's pathetic life. Sparing him would not do justice for those poor kids who died in Bartlett, but that was a moral dilemma for another time.

"You got to fix this, man!", Adam pleaded. "They wanted me to go to Time Square and set this off!"

"Calm down and we'll get you out of that thing!"

"You don't understand! Listen, listen… They have my wife. They have my kid!"

"Stop squirming!", Ethan yelled at the man, who immediately fell silent.

It was the best way to vent his frustration. No kidding, since the explosive device on the guy's chest proved to be incredibly difficult to dissect. Ethan knelt down to inspect the bomb further. There had to be a way to stop the damn thing. In his limited experience with disarming bombs, he knew that the job was like solving a jigsaw puzzle, only in reverse. Each piece was related to the whole and he needed to find the one piece that could dismantle everything. He quickly made a mental list of the bomb's components, to see what he could remove. Detonator. Fuse. Explosive charge. Arming device. Power source.

Seconds seemed to turn into minutes. No matter how long it was, he stood there long enough for a news chopper to arrive, hovering up above at the chaos in the bridge.

That alone gave him more pressure. At the very least, the bomb didn't run on a timer, nor did it have a limited fuse of some sort. The detonator that Adam was forced to hold onto seemed the only thing that kept the ordnance from ever going off. That was a relief to Meghan, who had anxious eyes that go against her initially-calm composure. Not that she could be blamed for it; nobody in their right mind would be at ease if they stood mere inches away from a live explosive device. She and Ethan sorely wished they had brought their electronic defuser today.

"IQ, this is Valkyrie. Can we borrow you over here?"

"Bravo Team is doing a sweep on the area. Why?"

"We got Mohandes in custody, and Ace is trying to disarm his suicide vest. We're gonna need you RED scanner to-"

*Beep! Beep! Beep!*

"…what was that?"

One of the lights suddenly blinked incessantly. It didn't match the beeping coming out from somewhere in that bird's nest of a bomb.

"It's a cellphone...", Ethan remarked.

…

"...Oh no…"

"What do you mean 'oh no'?", Adam asked.

The ringing caused a timer to appear on his vest; the digital screen was previously lifeless. '20'. Then it became '19'. '18'. '17'…

The deadman's switch was not enough for these bastards. Ethan was speechless and slack-jawed at the sudden sight. He was gripped with fear and adrenaline, his heart upped the ante as he tried to make sense of the next steps. But he didn't panic like the poor fellow in front of him. On the contrary, he remained calm and composed, rationalizing his plan of action. This time, there was something mixed with his feelings. The one thing he didn't think he'd ever feel for Adam, after everything that this wretched man had done against him and his own countrymen.

Pity.

"We're out of time… We're out of time...", Ethan muttered.

"W-what?"

There was dawning realization on the sniper's head: the only acceptable outcome that didn't sit well with his conscience. It needed to be done, if lives were to be saved.

"…I'm sorry. I-I am so sorry..."

He turned around to his partner, who immediately realized what he was about to do.

"...Come here. Help me with him."

And she went along with it. She walked towards Adam, as Ethan grabbed him by the shoulder without any warning. The poor man was still clueless, as if the fear had addled his purportedly-genius brain. When the masked woman with the black tactical gear manhandled him as well, that was when absolute terror gripped him completely. He was too weak, and acted far too late, to even resist. The two commandos lifted him off his feet, despite his protests…

"Wait! Wait! No! Nononono… Don't do this! Don't do this! DON'T DO THIS!"

…They walked over to the railing, below which was the East River, flowing unceasingly. At this point, the timer on Adam's vest had counted down to '7'. Then '6'. Then '5'. Ethan wanted to apologize, one last time. By rights he should savor this moment. Alas he didn't even have the courage to look at the poor man in the eye.

" **NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooo!** "

…

…

*BOOOOOOM!*

The Bridge rocked violently from the force of the explosion, breaking a few more windscreens by its intensity. Ethan nearly fell on his feet, hands gripped on the steel balustrade, as his legs briefly swayed and engulfed him in even more pain. It was enough to force him to kneel against the railing, all the while giving him a good view of the smoke billowing from the blast. To his horror, the smoke was had a tinge of yellow on it: undoubtedly the poisonous Compound Z, per his experience. But by some miracle, the terrifying mist settled into the River instead. A far worse tragedy, averted in front of his eyes. All it took was just another life.

It was all over. Exhausted and in pain, Ethan collapsed into the ground.

"Ace!", Meghan rushed to his side.

"I'm okay… Don't worry, I'll be fine… I'll be fine."

It was the last lie he would give this morning. He wanted to tear off the fabric on his lower legs, gauge just how his wounds were worsened. He decided to leave that surprise for later, once this whole mess was over with.

There was just enough time to survey the carnage, smell the ashes. The bridge was littered with spent shell casings, shattered glass, pock marks, and bloodstains. Most of all, the corpses strewn about between empty vehicles. Anguished crying and screams came from a handful of survivors, cradling lifeless friends and family. Many were gripped in fear, frozen in place by the bloodbath they were unfortunate enough to witness firsthand. It was an appalling scene, one that could break the hearts of even the sternest soldiers. Meghan muttered something under her breath, before turning away to wipe something from her face.

Nobody would ever forget this day.

From afar came blaring sirens, slowly growing in volume. Ethan looked behind him to the sight of dozens of ambulances and NYPD SWAT cars, all screeching their tires to a halt. The cavalry was here. Cops with raised weapons, medics with trauma kits and stretchers, and other people came to the rescue. They were too late, but their presence was not less than welcome. Rainbow could finally sigh in relief. Yet not a single one of them wanted to indulge in the new-found respite. The battle at Queensboro was just a small snapshot of the larger picture. Within seconds, the radio came to life yet again, with a familiar voice on the other end.

"Valkyrie, are you there?", went a male voice. It was Miles. "Valkyrie, come in."

"Castle? 'Bout time you called back... What's the sitrep?"

"Six wants you and your guys to pull back to the command post, ASAP. We've got another skirmish over at Williamsburg. Sledge and Alpha Team are on point."

Unsurprisingly, the White Masks were still coming in droves. Their attack was still underway.

"Oh my God… Just how big is this thing?"

"You won't believe it. Chatter's through the roof. Bastards hit everywhere, like Ethan said they would... Ramstein, Madrid, Hong Kong, Nagoya… We also got word that they bombed a Marine convoy in Marrakesh just a few minutes ago."

"Goddammit…"

…

The sense of accomplishment was short-lived as another exasperated sigh escaped the blonde woman's lips. She turned around and looked at Ethan, exchanging weary stares. He overhead their conversation, already resigning himself to the grim fact. Trouble was still brewing elsewhere, prompting Rainbow to rearm and regroup. Time was of the essence. But for the sniper, he needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible, lest his wounds would completely ruin him. The silence between the two Operators was almost enough to do the job of words.

"Ace… you really should sit this one out."

He still had fire in his heart. He wanted to stand up, prove his conviction.

"I can't… We still have to deal with... argh!"

He crumpled into the ground, in pain and with a few ounces of strength left in his body. The bandages on his legs now had darker splotches of red; some of his wounds had been reopened. Meghan hurried to his side, lifting one of his arms over her shoulder. A sturdy constitution proved to be nothing when forced to carry the burden of such injuries. Then, he felt a hand on his back. It was a gentle, friendly pat. He looked at his comrade with incredulous eyes. She was smiling behind her mask, albeit a faint one. They were both exhausted.

"Don't be stupid. You've done enough…"

The day was still young.

...

* * *

Commonwealth Royal Flight HC-1000  
Heathrow Airport, London

At the same time

…

An assault team had boarded the plane ten minutes ago. The pressure was on. Emily Jacobsen kept a keen ear open while her two partners readied themselves in the cockpit. The absence of explosions meant that the traps they laid in the halls had been disabled. The gunfire had been silent for a while now, which could only mean that the guys guarding the rear compartment and the meeting room had all been killed. At this point, the cops were already massing near the server hallway and the stairs- the final layer of defense for the survivors inside the pilot's cabin. One could faintly hear the squeaking of combat boots just a few yards away from the barricaded door.

"This is it guys. Get ready!", one of the ski mask-wearing hijackers whispered.

"We got this! We got this! No problem...", said another, hiding his fear with fake bravado.

Emily didn't speak. Instead, she pulled back the slide on her sound-suppressed Beretta, anticipating yet another gunfight in close quarters. At any moment, the barricade in front of her would be shattered by a breaching device.

She crouched up from her hiding spot and made her way to the pilot's seat, past its bound-and-gagged owner and his coworker, both whimpering in fear. Peering outside of the bulletproof glass, she could see that more MPS squad cars had arrived to the scene. A few of them transported heavily-armed officers, who immediately dismounted from their vehicles and raced to take up positions near the barricades. A quick estimate placed their numbers at around 20 or so cops. 'Cops' being the operative word here; there were countless soldiers and commandos mingling with the growing crowd as well, all identified by their British Army camouflage. Beyond the throng of armed responders, there was a line of civilians, reporters, and onlookers cordoned off by an even larger police barricade. It was safe to assume that the whole world was already aware of the situation.

So, it would be a final stand after all. Victory hinged on taking down as many of the commandos as possible in order to force them to flee and regroup. They might even reopen negotiations after that stunt in a ploy to spare a few more lives. The Metropolitan Police Service would likely concede to any demand if it would mean the safe release of the hostages: in this case, the pilot and the crew. But things would be different if the dreaded Special Air Service was on the scene; those psychos seldom showed mercy to their enemies. The redhead could expect nothing less than a repeat of The Alamo, albeit a messier one at that, if the boys of Hereford were here.

There was no point worrying. Everything went according to plan, with nobody else in the group aware of the ruse. There was still a chance to turn things around if she worked fast enough. Freedom was within reach.

"Shh. I hear 'em coming."

One of her lackeys placed a finger on his mask, where his mouth would be. It was time. Sure enough, Emily heard a faint rustling from beyond the barricade, similar to a ripcord being pulled. Then, a smack from hard rubber against a metal surface. Then a tab…

…But curiously, there was no beep.

*tick*

"The hell is that?"

The three hijackers looked at their feet, revealing a sinister surprise. A small metal sphere had been rolled from underneath the barricade. It blinked with an annoying white flicker, spinning around like a carousel. It hummed with a tiny motor, or perhaps a generator, which presumably powered the device. The first thought that came to Emily's mind was 'grenade'. She wanted to scream. But she recognized the object. It was something that the Brits kept up their sleeves: a trump card to foil any would-be terrorist with a suicide vest.

An EMP grenade.

*Zzzzzzzaaaap!*

One second there was a blinding light. The next second, the entire cabin became dark, devoid of flashing strobes. Lights from the control panels went dead, as did the quiet humming of the flight apparatus. The hijackers were gripped in fear for a moment. Then, they readied their guns in anticipation of the inevitable entry.

 _This is my chance._

"Get ready, they just shut down our comms. We have to- *thwoop*"

The hijacker immediately fell dead with a bullet to the head. His comrade turned around to the shot's direction. Instead, he met face to face with a sound-suppressed Beretta. The barrel was smoking.

"Jacobsen!? What the fu- *thwoop*"

She, too, planted a bullet into his head without a second thought. Two fresh corpses in the cabin, each had hollow holes with blood oozing out. The hostages whimpered at the sight, fearing they were next. They would be, if the redhead deemed it necessary.

Lucky for them, their salvation had finally come. With her partners dead, Emily pulled back the slide of her handgun to empty its chamber. A bullet fell from the ejection port, onto the bloodstained floor with an audible clang. Then, she released the magazine from her gun and tossed it away, setting down the weapon a few feet in front of her. An odd twist of events for any passersby's eyes. But this was part of the woman's plan from the beginning. It needed to end here and now, before it was too late. Too late for _her_.

*Blam!*

The barricade on the cabin was felled by a powerful blow: a battering ram from the London bobbies, rather than an explosive door charge that Emily had expected. Within seconds, hooded figures in black commando suits stormed in, all brandishing sound-suppressed automatic weapons. The sole remaining 'hijacker' heeded her instinct and raised her hands, prove she was no threat, even without the barking of the commandos' team leader.

"Hands! Hands!", he yelled. "Don't ya fucking move!"

The man wore a gasmask and spoke with an aged voice.

More commandos entered the cabin. Some went to escort the hostages out, while others inspected the deceased in such close quarters. Emily, meanwhile, complied like an obedient prisoner. Another act, another lie. This time though, her ploy had a different, far less sinister objective. No more deaths were needed from this moment on, lest she would ruin the rest of her plan. She played it like she practiced a dozen times before. The commandos manhandled her as they were wont to do. They didn't have gentle hands, shoving her down into the cold, bloodied floor like a hated fugitive. Her mask was stained with splotches of red and some of them oozed into her unblemished face. Disgusting and undignified, but she was way past caring for appearances at this point.

While the elderly trooper produced handcuffs from his utility belt, another masked man came into the cabin. He had a rather sinister gait, perhaps purposeful, as he holstered a sound-suppressed SMG-11 and took out something from his vest. It looked like a photograph of some sort, judging from its square shape. The man held it close to Emily's face, right before he tore her ski mask off. Of course he would; this was standard operating procedure for identifying a suspect from a throng of unknown individuals.

"Yep. That's her. Positive visual.", the man spoke, obviously sounding a bit younger. "Hear that, guv? Looks like you owe me a pint!"

"Shut it, Jimmy. Get her up…"

After that quick banter, the commandos forced Emily on her feet and led her out. On the stairs leading into the tarmac, she realized the full extent of London's 'welcome': the runway was absolutely packed with fire engines, ambulances, and police cars all surrounding the aircraft. Cops and paramedics were everywhere. News vans drove into the scene, only to be waved off by armed officers on sentry-duty. There were no snipers. No helicopters circling above. Was that all? Was she home free? Her questions remained unanswered as a black bag was suddenly draped over her face…

"Mute, this is Thatcher. Target X-Ray is secured.", the team leader reported. "I repeat, X-Ray is secured. Sierra and Whiskey are movin' to the L-Zed now, over."

"Affirmative sir. Code White confirmed. All units are standing down."

Captured by the enemy: the last step in the plan. The tension on her muscles faded as the realization slowed crept into her soul. All the sacrifices she made, all the lies, all the deaths she caused… didn't go to waste after all. No more ambiguities. No more deceptions. She made it, despite the odds. She pulled it off, just like her father would've wanted her to. Underneath the mask, there was a bright grin on her lips and tears forming in her pretty eyes. She wafted in the sense of fulfillment, even if the cost was too high. Her life was forfeit. As did her career, her honor, her friends, her countrymen, her father's legacy. All in the name of protecting her beloved nation from its own insane patriots. At least she didn't completely lose everything.

 _See you on the other side… Ethan._

It felt unworthy of her to remember that name. She would never see him again. But it didn't matter now. After a long trek across the tarmac, the commandos led her to a van and closed the door shut. It was dark, cold, and lonely, save for the ambient radio chatter.

At long last, she was finally free.

…

* * *

 **Author's Notes and Comments:** Welp, this is officially the longest chapter in this story. I suppose it's only fitting that I make this last bit as action-packed as I could make it. Chapter 19 was heavily-inspired by the Rainbow Six: Patriots reveal trailer back in 2011; you might notice plenty of callbacks and references from that. Please stay tuned for the Epilogue, which will be out in a couple of days (fingers crossed)!


	21. Epilogue

**Notice:** I took another couple of days to fine-tune everything, mainly because Operation: Grim Sky had just come out and it introduced plenty of things I wanted to reference here. Also, those who played Alpha Protocol might notice a few things that sound familiar. ;)

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

* * *

 _..._

 _"…thus, marking the close of this year's Global Security and Anti-Terrorism Summit in Geneva, following its postponement in the wake of last month's 'Freedom Day' attacks... Delegates from more than fifty countries posed for a final photograph, forming a human chain as a testament to their renewed commitment to work together in both military and diplomatic matters, and quell the threat of violent extremism flourishing across the world... Under-Secretary-General Barston issued a statement assuring that the UN collectively condemns the attacks on America, Europe and elsewhere, promising irrevocable sanctions against countries found guilty of sponsoring or harboring their perpetrators…_

 _…In other news, the House of Representatives has finally passed the Enhanced Domestic Defense Act, colloquially known as the 'Edda', and is expected to reach the Senate in time for the first hearing scheduled later this month... Proponents of the bill have already proclaimed a landslide victory, following several days of protests and a 'Liberty March' of hundreds of people in Washington DC, all clamoring for the bill's immediate suspension… If signed by the President, the Edda will see a massive reorganization of the country's intelligence and military infrastructure, which some critics fear will lead to the infringement of human rights in pursuit of those deemed "a danger to the state"…_

 _…Senator Patricia Darcy, one of the bill's staunchest supporters, has proposed to rename it the 'Saint-Claire Law' after Madison Saint-Claire, the 21-year-old undergraduate who perished in the attack on Bartlett University. An alumnus of the University's College of Law, Senator Darcy has also unveiled plans to construct a memorial garden at Liberty Hall, remembering the dozens of young men and women who were the first victims in America's worst domestic terrorist campaign in decades..."_

 _..._

* * *

Pope Army Airfield, Fort Bragg, North Carolina  
Outside Hangar Two

Day 50

...

Fiftieth day on the job. Fifty-two days, almost two months, since Bartlett. All was well in the world, freeing Ethan to focus on more mundane things.

*thud*

"Phew! That takes care of that.", he said to himself, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Tedious work packing the comms gear into the shipping container, on account of his crutches and bandaged right leg. Sweat created a moist stain on his back, ruining the otherwise clean black shirt that matched his trousers. But the hardest part was finally over; the equipment was now sorted and ready to go. Tomorrow would be the flight to England, so there was hardly any time left to be so delicate with Team Rainbow's stuff, most of which were stacked just outside of Hangar Two. Despite his condition, Ethan insisted on lending a hand. It was the least he could do.

It was only right to leave things this way, on a positive note.

 _Two more days, Ethan. Two more days._

With the deed finally done, he sat on top of one of the crates for a breather. He opened a bottle of cold water resting beside him to quench his thirst, though the temptation to light up a cigarette pestered him to no end. Pope Field's runway provided him with a calm, peaceful scenery. Given recent events, it was quite odd to see the place so empty and lifeless this morning; a dozen Blackhawks might have flown off from this spot when the battle in New York raged all throughout that fateful Juneteenth. At the moment, there was but a single helicopter parked on the cream-white tarmac. Its rotor blades slowed to a complete halt, while a bunch of nondescript people marched out of the fuselage, carrying duffel bags of all kinds. Heading to meet them was a blonde and two of her American friends, plus a bald giant of a Scotsman whom everyone recognized. They all wore the same clothes as Ethan. Though far away from him, the woman had a loud enough voice, amplified by the ambient silence.

"Well, well, well... Get a load of this bitch, prancing around like she owns the place.", Meghan greeted the visitors.

She was approached by a different woman, the one leading the other group. Tall, skin as white as snow, and donning a baseball cap. Her hair was dyed in an ugly shade of green for some strange reason. She came off as an angsty teen, rather than a professional.

"Only a slutty girl would say that... Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were a girl."

And she had a thick accent too. Likely Russian, or at least Slavic. The two ladies came off like they were about to start a brawl; an insult to the blonde's muscular frame deserved a thrashing. With fierce faces, they stared into each other for a few seconds… before breaking down into smiles and unbridled laughter, familiar to any brother-in-arms. They hugged each other, as tightly as close friends would. Perhaps 'sister' would be a better term, considering Meghan's unusually bright expression when she pulled from her.

"The Bosak Tempest... You sure took your sweet-ass time to get here!"

"Still obsessed with my ass, huh?", the other woman asked. "That is an unhealthy fetish you have there, honestly."

"Guys, this is Ela… Ela, welcome to the Team. We're all glad to have you aboard."

Miles and Jordan had awkward smiles. The latter was clearly unenthused, jokingly or otherwise.

"Oh great... another dame…"

"Oi, show some respect Jordie. We've a long day ahead of us.", Seamus chided.

"I'd rather go back to Hereford now, man. Heard the view's gotten better since we left."

Ethan smiled at how the soldiers bantered, reminding him of the dynamic he shared with his friends, God bless their souls. The purpose of the visitors was clear: they were the new guys due to join them this morning. Counter-terrorism experts, former elite soldiers, and ex-law enforcement agents from all over the world. Meghan said that they were 'prospects' that Six had been eyeing on for some time, even amidst the whole mess with the White Masks. It was hard to believe that the boss lady managed to do that. New blood was always a good thing in Ethan's books, so he was not complaining their presence. If anything, the Freedom Day attacks showed that Team Rainbow was in dire need of more manpower. This morning would remedy that.

Ela had quite an entourage behind her, all wearing their Casual Friday way too early in the week. There was a tall, tan-skinned guy with a scruff, a short woman with boyish dark hair, an Asian woman who was even shorter, and another guy who donned cargo shorts and a slick pair of Oakleys. Trailing behind them were two other people: a bespectacled, pig-tailed chick with white highlights and a stoic-looking man with a crewcut, both engaged in a separate conversation of their own. All of them were fit and ready for duty, despite what their appearances might otherwise suggest. Different faces, different personalities, in a meet-and-greet with the long-time vets. An opportunity to size each other up, right before the greenhorns could be roped into some sort of initiation, like Ethan experienced in his time.

'His time'. So much had happened since Seamus fetched him in Brooke Army Medical, it was hard to believe that only several weeks had gone by. And yet, the new guy already felt the trappings of his seniority. An Operator with barely two months into his belt in Rainbow, but he was an old-timer compared to the new face. If it weren't for the injuries in his body, he would gladly show them the. Meghan and Seamus continued with the preliminaries, all the while leading the Ela and the rest to another hangar for a more formal ceremony. Jordan and Miles smiled as they followed them from behind, presumably relishing the kind of hazing they were about to give the newbies.

Those men and women would be in good hands.

Ethan pulled out Gabe's dogtags from his pocket, fumbling them and looking for a sign. But he found none. He no longer needed it. It was time to move on after that fateful day, to pick up the pieces after wallowing in misfortune for a long time. Gulping down the last drop from his drink, the crippled sniper then carefully lowered himself from the crate and grabbed his crutches for the tedious hobble inside Hangar Two.

It was where the rest of Team Rainbow's stuff was being taken down and disassembled. There was quite a lot of activity inside, more than he initially hoped. Power tools and hammers sounded endlessly as the demolition of Rainbow's shooting range at Fort Bragg continued in earnest. Ethan turned his head to one side and saw Shuhrat and Marius lifting a large piece of bulletproof material onto a nearby pile, the last vestiges of their ad-hoc shooting range. Max, Sebastien, and Tina were in another corner, running a thorough inventory check of the guns stored in the weapon lockers, prepping them for the quartermaster's final review later in the day. Alex had the rather thankless job of counting the rest of the unspent ammunition before they were returned to the base's armory, but the singing from his lips implied that he was actually enjoying the work.

Director Six was also there, making a vid-call to a laptop at a far table. She refused to be disturbed by the noise, instead focusing on the male who was speaking to her.

"…And I hope the handover will be less… confrontational than the last time."

"Of course...", she nodded. "…I have told my people to be on their best behavior..."

Ethan squinted a bit for a better view. The lady seemed to be talking to an old man with eyeglasses and corporate attire. His face was in the TV recently.

"…And I hope we can put our differences behind us… _Secretary_ Treadway.", Six finished her sentence with a dissatisfied tone.

"Hmph. So now you're acting all-meek and polite? Adorable.", he gloated.

"…"

"Anyway, I have a meeting to attend to. We'll talk again. I expect a full report before you pack your bags… _Director_."

The call ended with a blank dialogue box, prompting Six to close the laptop with a bitter taste in her mouth. She seemed more than happy to end the conversation, judging from her disenchanted eyes. It was hard to blame her; the man she talked to was the newly-promoted Secretary of Homeland Security. No doubt rewarded for his 'efforts' in containing the attack on New York. The vitriol was understandable. For all intents and purposes, he was Rainbow's new overseer; Six would have to answer to him if she wanted her people to maintain a sizable presence in US soil. It would be one big can of worms, as anyone experienced in American bureaucracy would quickly point out.

Suffice to say, the Team had one more good reason to leave the country. The first was the Enhanced Domestic Defense Act that proved Rainbow's 'redundancy', as proclaimed by the powers that be.

"What was that about, ma'am?", Ethan asked. The woman turned to him with a wearied look.

"This."

She handed him a copy of Bragg's usual periodicals, plastered with large headlines. The text in the newspaper nearly caused Ethan to recoil in disgust.

'CIA Report: Foreign Terrorist Cell led Attack in New York'. The front story was as eye-catching as it was totally erroneous. And sifting through the pages only proved all the bullshit written within, a disservice to those who had been there that fateful day. Apparently, 'Mohandes' was _not_ Adam Kipper's alias, the one-time consultant for the DHS who went rogue to feed his greed. Mohandes was _not_ a traitor who plied his trade on chemical weapons to the highest bidder like a cheap-ass floozy. And apparently, he was shot dead by NYPD during the skirmish in Queensboro Bridge, _not_ tossed overboard like a pitiable victim, vaporized by the chemical bomb that his friends forced him to wear.

"Jesus… Who came up with this?", Ethan asked rhetorically.

Six pulled the newspaper from his hands without a second thought. Not out of disrespect, but rather to tell him that his feelings mirrored her own.

"It's either that, or we tell the public that the US military has been infiltrated by terrorists. There will be chaos if we let the truth out... So I'll have to condone the white lies just this once."

"Son of a bitch…"

"Let it go. The world has already picked this up as the 'official' story…"

Ethan scoffed and shook his head. This was yet another textbook case of the politicians rewriting the narrative in order to hide their own incompetence. He thought he had more than his fill with this crap in the Army, but alas, déjà vu. Things like this were the reason why Emily decided to betray her own country. Why psychopaths like the White Masks had a lot of room to grow their numbers over the years. And with Team Rainbow being forced to abandon America because of some piece of legislation, the future was slowly becoming bleaker.

"How's rehab, Mallory?", Six changed the subject.

"It's been swell so far, ma'am.", He drew attention to his crutches for emphasis. "I have another session with the therapist tomorrow."

"Good to hear. What did you tell your family?"

"Training accident. That's the best excuse for the broken leg, so..."

"Heh. I know how that is..."

The boss lady gave him a rare smile. They exchanged quick laughs, as if to relieve some of the bitterness in the air. His first meeting with the esteemed Director also played out like this; it felt like ages ago. The laughter brought about a few stares from the other Operators, but they quickly went back to their business. Soon enough, silence befell the boss and her subordinate. This was perhaps their last banter here at Bragg, just before Team Rainbow returned to England for good.

It was the perfect segue for Ethan to do what he came here for. Away from Meghan and Seamus's prying ears, this was no better place to break the news…

…

But the lady beat him to the punch.

"…So, do you _still_ want to leave the Team?"

…

And just like that, his plan was ruined.

"H-How did you know?", he asked.

"That's not important... This is about Jacobsen, isn't?"

Ethan was speechless, swallowing the lump on his throat. He thought of his next words carefully, while the woman scrutinized every fiber of his being with her astute eyes.

There were no two ways going about it. He didn't want to sound like a pussy who quitted after getting roughed up. But there was simply something… personal that he let happen that eventually got in the way of his job. The things he said to Emily, _did_ with her, ultimately led to one of the Team's biggest missteps. If he hadn't brought that spook into the loop, then Emma and Miles might not have been shot in Redmond. All those cops that the Team fought alongside with might not have been slaughtered. The security plan for the Global Security Summit might not have been jeopardized. In a way, Ethan had a hand in all of them; resigning was his way of owning up to those mistakes. It was what Gabe would've done, too.

Six was having none of it. She crossed her arms while she lectured.

"Sergeant Mallory, if you think you're the only here to have been screwed over by a 'friend', then you are gravely mistaken..."

The woman was as shrewd as ever. Ethan wondered if she had a sixth sense or something, adding more weight to her monosyllabic title. Did she talk to Emma? Did she send someone to sift through his stuff to find that resignation letter? Rather than answer his question, the boss lady simply paused her speech and turned to her laptop again.

"...But I also believe in accountability. Integrity. If this is how you think you can fix the blowback to your teammates, then I won't stop you..."

A few button presses on the keyboard revealed a familiar picture. That of a red-haired woman, with piercing blue eyes, fair complexion, and a serious demeanor on her face. A seal on the right-hand corner of the screen indicated that it was a profile picture, straight from the Central Intelligence Agency itself. Background text listed the boring essentials. None of them listed the fact that she led the attempted bombing in Heathrow Airport, after hijacking the plane carrying the British delegation headed for New York.

"…She meant a lot to you, didn't she?"

"Maybe. Once.", Ethan muttered, struggling to respond in an apt manner.

"Just so you know, she'll be taken to a black site in Iowa later today. The Brits will be handing her over to the CIA at Dulles… She'll never see the light of day again."

"She can rot for all I care."

*click*

Six shifted the monitor's view to a different dialogue box. This time, that of a bald Caucasian man, cold and unfeeling, with a bone-chilling stare Ethan could recognize from any number of psychos he had met during his service. He recognized the man's picture as that of Emily's top lackey, and presumably her most trusted lieutenant. The same guy who kidnapped him and took him to the Aklark, as well as the one who knocked Adam out with a vicious chokehold per the redhead's orders.

"Then there's the other man, too. Caleb.", the Director continued. "We handed him over to Langley last night. Treadway's orders."

"Did we find anything more about him? Emily said he was a Marine."

"I had Castellano do some digging. Took her a week, but she found some old records in Pendleton, all covered in black ink..."

A few more taps to the keyboard created a different set of screens; scanned copies of official-looking documents marked 'USMC'. Ethan took great care to skim through them all and highlight important details. Sergeant Caleb M. Hinney. Former Scout Sniper, 1st Marine Division. The guy's service record bore plenty of similarities with his. Different branch of service, sure, but the play-by-play was similar. Like himself, Caleb was a former soldier who had done his fair share of dirt, who then suddenly opted out for a better living. Exactly the kind of guy that the CIA would want for muscle, and apparently the White Masks as well. His exact motivation for become a top gun for the bad guys was a mystery, but it was unnerving to think that the former Delta sniper could've walked down the same path, if things had been different.

"...Nothing in his profile suggested he had the potential to become a terrorist. Makes me wonder how many of our own countrymen we can still trust..."

*click*

"…But I suppose that's not your problem anymore…", Six continued. "…I reckon you're gonna report back to the Pentagon in a couple of days?"

"I don't know yet, honestly… We'll see."

"Hmph. I know many people here who will miss you, despite your short time. You're a good man. Pichon speaks highly of you."

"I… I'm flattered, ma'am."

Ethan smiled awkwardly in response, feeling a tinge of warmth in his cheeks. The woman caught on and chuckled, this time genuinely mocking his poor form.

But there was more to it than that. The more that he thought about it, the more he realized that the pictures in the laptop were Six's way of imploring him. That his involvement with Emily ran far too deep just for him to call it quits. Caleb was a professional of the highest caliber; no doubt the White Masks had more such men in their ranks. The deceptions, the ploys, the conspiracies… Ethan had become familiar with them, whether he liked it or not. It would be wrong to walk away from them all. He still had unfinished business. The Team still needed him.

…

Even so, he felt sure about his decision.

"Here's something to help you think.", Six handed him a piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"One last job. Before I can let you go..."

Ethan opened the little parting gift, anxious to see what it was all about. To his surprise, it was a photo and a summarized profile of a blonde Caucasian man, in his mid to late thirties. His blue eyes were a bit droopy and cold. His face was all worn out, with a bright unkempt beard gracing his chin. His attire was as nondescript as any introvert would prefer it to be. Right off the bat, Ethan recognized the man on the picture, causing a gasp to escape his lips.

It was an old acquaintance of his.

"…He's in Benning right now. Set-up a meet with him. I heard he'd rather talk face-to-face with a fellow Delta."

…

* * *

"The Convoy", Somewhere in the United States  
At the same time.

...

Captured by the enemy. One of the worst fates that a Marine could endure, on account of tortures, interrogations, and other unspeakable horrors that awaited.

Caleb never thought he'd live long enough to suffer this fate. He had been doing well so far. A seasoned operative, a razor-sharp scalpel that the Bossman had been wielding effectively. It didn't matter that he was ultimately fighting and killing those he used to work with. Yet, like all good soldiers, his luck against the enemy had to run out sometime. But defeat would have been easier to stomach had it not been a fucking Frenchwoman with a revolver who did him in. It was infuriating to say the least; he was not usually one to listen to his ego, but that bitch clearly made a dent that he would never forget. And thanks to her, he was now being herded into some shithole like a piece of meat, waiting to be slaughtered. Whoever running the transport detail likely wanted him caged in a CIA installation.

But he wasn't entirely sure, this time at least. He had no clues or hints. For this trip, the guards made sure to cover his face with a black bag so that he would never see his destination. The prison bus was just one out of five other vehicles, all cruising along some dirt road, judging from every bump the tires trod on. Each involuntary jerking caused Caleb's shoulder wound to throb, even if it was wrapped by layers of bandages and anesthetics. The orange jumpsuit mostly covered it up, hiding his mark of shame from the rest of the world. All courtesy of Team Rainbow.

The international counter-terror taskforce had gotten under his skin. They weren't adversaries anymore; he felt nothing but seething disdain for those prissy fools. Anger kept his senses in check. He swore to bid his time, wait out the pain. Should he get out from his cage, the first order of business would be-

*tires screeching*

Vengeful thoughts ground to a halt, just as the bus did.

 _What the hell?_

Caleb turned his head around out of instinct, but the black bag over his face blocked his sight. With keen ears, he heard the driver-side door open, followed by a pair of boots stepping onto a sandy surface. There were a few people talking and calling each other out with muffled voices. Like the bus was stopped at a checkpoint or something. Then, several steps came to the rear of the vehicle. The prisoner counted at least three people, judging by the number of footsteps he heard in each interval. Next was a metallic clang, followed by the grinding of a rusty lever. Within seconds, the black bag on his face was bathed in a faint light, even though he still couldn't see through it.

Someone had opened the door to the cabin.

*Fwffft*

A pair of hands clutched the mask on Caleb's face, before yanking it off. And just like that, he had the chance to open his eyes for the first time this day. He turned turn towards the source of brightness that enveloped the cramped compartment. His handcuffs prevented him from shielding his vision. All he saw a silhouette of a well-dressed man, wearing a pair of eyeglasses, bearing the features of an aged individual. He was flanked by a couple of armed men, wearing white ballistics mask. He looked like an old-timer, a typical 'G-Man' as grunts usually referred to them as. His sight slowly adjusting, Caleb was soon able to distinguish the mystery guy's face a little bit better. It belonged to a familiar individual, someone whose aged mug was plastered all over the news recently.

Robert Jonah Treadway.

…

…

"How are you, son?", he asked.

"Bossman? How… what are you…"

What the fuck was he doing here? It had been weeks since Caleb spoke to him, and even then it was over the phone. Right here, in the flesh, the vaunted benefactor wore a stoic expression, matching the tone of his voice in the airwaves. The prisoner felt embarrassed; Treadway had finally seen him at his lowest point thus far. The sigh of disappointment proved this fact, but it didn't last for long. With unfeeling and calculating eyes, he instead motioned to one the guards.

"Open it up."

An armed officer nodded without a second thought and brought out his set of keys. As it turned out, the bus that Caleb was riding on had another compartment, caged and closed, serving as impromptu solitary confinement for dangerous prisoners. It had a lone occupant: another captive wearing the same orange jumpsuit, steel handcuffs, and black bag over the head. Being separated from the other passengers only meant that this person was a special case. Someone that the Bossman was personally interested in. As the guard proceeded to work on the restraints, the prisoner started to whimper in fear.

It was a woman. The smaller build and lighter voice were dead giveaways. When the guard took away the black mask, her face was revealed to an apathetic crowd. Except for Caleb, who was clearly surprised. She had disheveled auburn hair. Her eyes shone a clear, icy azure. Her fair skin was marred with a few cuts and bruises.

"Agent Jacobsen.", Treadway spoke.

She immediately noticed his commanding presence. She, too, was startled to see him in the flesh.

"Treadway…?", she looked at him, then darted her eyes. "Caleb? What are you doing here?"

Emily looked out of touch and dazed, as if she had just been rudely awakened from a long stupor. She panicked slightly at the sight of her jumpsuit and handcuffs, while the prison guards surrounded her and aimed their weapons. She scanned her surroundings, frantically, for any sign or avenue for escape. Her legs were kept in place by a set of chains. The light seeping into the compartment also proved distracting, prompting her to whimper and struggle in vain. That is, until each passing second told her to calm down. There was no point in fighting. Her blue eyes went over to the cabin again, but the dawning realization finally kicked in, amplifying her terror.

"…No. No. Nononono…"

Treadway stepped forward.

"You know… being DHS Secretary isn't so bad in practice. For instance, I can straight-up ask the alphabet agencies if they're running some undercover operation against the 'White Masks'…"

"No… This isn't happening...!"

"…And guess what? They're _not_ … Not the NSA, CIA, FBI… I thought we had a mole in our ranks; it turns out we actually had a _renegade_."

He casted a mean shadow over the woman, who could do nothing but look up. Caleb thought it was strange to see the stubborn and arrogant bitch go quiet all of a sudden. Perhaps that was a common response by spooks of all stripes, meeting face-to-face with their ruthless superiors. And 'ruthless' was one word to describe Treadway, seeing that he made a personal appearance in this convoy. Why was Emily here? Was she captured as well? As far as Caleb knew, the Freedom Day attack went off without a hitch. And yet the Bossman sounded disappointed. Before the girl could utter a response, he pulled out a small device from his coat pockets.

It was an audio recorder.

*click*

...

 _"~Nobody else knows, alright! I didn't talk to anyone! Not to Dai Lo Chang, not to Hong Kong or Shanghai!~"_

 _"~Oh? Then why is the CIA hearing chatter about a joint task group between Poland, Korea, and the Hong Kong Police? Seems like your deal with Adam was not as hush-hush as you thought.~"_

 _..._

Caleb recognized the first voice. It belonged to Danny Goh; one of their most trusted allies in the Triads, now-deceased thanks to the Hong Kong Police. The second one was a woman- Emily, herself. She lowered her head after hearing her own speech.

*click*

"I got this from the Interior Minister in Warsaw…", Treadway explained while he pocketed the device. "…The GROM agent who infiltrated Goh's inner circle said that it was… 'an American-sounding woman' who killed him…"

"…"

"…Special Activities also told me that it was _you_ who ordered them to sabotage Korean Army comms at Seoul. You remember that, don't you? Mok Myeok Tower? For some reason, the commandos ended up stealing a sizable chunk of our intel cache anyway, despite your efforts…"

"…"

"…Then you went to The Compound… Which led to Fayetteville… To Caleb's capture… The destruction of the Aklark..."

He leaned his face close to hers.

"…You proved your 'loyalty' when you went to Redmond yourself… Damn fine work playing both sides, Emily. You really _are_ your father's little girl."

The woman kept her head lowered, out of shame, while Treadway talked.

Caleb could hardly believe his ears. What was their leader insinuating? Did Emily… kill Mr. Chang? Was she sabotaging their operations, this whole time? It didn't make sense; she clearly showed that she was working against Rainbow. That is, until he remembered some of the things she told him. That sacrificing their safehouses in France and Italy was a ploy to bring Team Rainbow out of the open. That infiltrating Brooke Army Medical Center to kill Emmanuelle Pichon was a terrible idea, even though he came close to doing so at his first try…

 _You lying bitch_ …

Today was a day of firsts. The embarrassment, the surprise… the anger. The former Marine's addled mind was given clarity, the pain from his wound seemingly ceased to exist. From his spot, he clenched his hands into fists. His blood boiled in bubbling rage as he maintained a steady glare at the woman he readily took orders from, all those months ago. How could he have been so blind? There was a traitor in their midst, and Caleb failed to notice it. But if Emily wasn't a double agent, then her allegiance only laid on her own. Even then, her reasons were irrelevant. While the man kept calm and held back his emotions, his esteemed patron continued talking. He always had a way with words to control people's reactions.

Emily began to sob, realizing her looming fate. It would do nothing to dispel her punishment…

…

"Hahaha… HAHAHAHAHA!"

She broke into hysteria, catching everyone off-guard. Tears flowed from her face while she giggled like a loon. Caleb thought that it was another one of her ploys, but Treadway knew better.

"I'll ask this once… Why did you do it?"

It took a while for Emily to settle down. She had been caught, and her time was slowly running out. There was no point holding everything back. She looked at their leader with defeated eyes, reddened by her weeping. Everyone in the bus wanted to hear her side.

…

"…Did you really think I'll let you bastards get away with it all!? …Ruin my father's work? …He started this whole movement to change the system… _Change_ it! …But you… you turned it into a private fucking army!"

The old man stood his ground, proverbially, as the turncoat continued her rant.

"I didn't believe what Mr. Fausse said… The guns, the money, the ambition... I had to see it for myself… It all seemed harmless, until you told my men to murder those kids…"

"This is about Bartlett, then…?"

Emily suddenly lunged from her seat in response, in a fit of rage, only to be held back down by the cuffs around her legs. The guards reared to shoot her, but Treadway suddenly placed a hand on their guns- an order to stand down. He still wanted to talk to her.

"…I thought _you_ were on board with that idea?"

"Bartlett, Witch Hunt, Abidjan, Hamburg… I should've stood up to you a long time ago!", she spat back. "…I should've killed Adam when I had the chance! YOU USED ALL OF US FOR YOUR OWN FUCKING GAIN!"

"My gain?"

The old man formed a mocking smile and chuckled to himself. He was not intimidated. On the contrary, he seemed to derive genuine amusement from the woman's outburst. It was puzzling to watch his behavior; after having his fill, Treadway turned his back on Emily and motioned to the guards. Caleb looked on in silence as they unlocked the chains on his arms and legs, granting him much-needed relief. Finally free from his restraints, he rubbed his wrists to regain sensation there. His next instinct was to punch the guards. He would've, had he not realized that they were the old man's own. _His_ people. This whole thing was not a rescue, but a formality.

"You think I planned my own promotion? …I still believe in the goal your father set for us. A stronger nation. No fear, no weakness... And if we have to subjugate the nation using a piece of paper, then so be it..."

The Enhanced Domestic Defense Act. The Edda's passage would give the military more power and autonomy to act in the best interests of the homeland. And the people they have inside will have greater freedom to operate at will, laying down the foundations for a future campaign. It was Treadway who wanted the bill to be passed, and he went to great lengths decrying its existence, to hide how he would actually _benefit_ from it. 'Public perception and spectacles', as he used to say; his foot soldiers were now reaping the rewards.

But the old man was spouting more poetics, much to Caleb's silent frustration. Then again, his rescuer took a considerable risk showing his face here, after spending nearly half his life playing the card of a bureaucrat. And he was damn good at the part: a grumpy, obtrusive patrician who served as a thorn to Rainbow's side, all the while coordinating dozens of operations across the globe. No one was the wiser. None knew who he really was.

"…I already talked to Senator Darcy… She assured me that we can push ahead with Phase-Four… Only this time, we will have Congress on our side, whether they know it or not…"

The traitorous redhead was startled by the news. More tears started to form in her eyes, but she didn't whimper this time. Instead, she mumbled her defiance.

"Ethan was right… this is all insane…"

Her words fell on deaf ears, as Treadway looked at Caleb in the eye and smiled. It was an ominous expression, given the circumstances. The latter still felt the pang of shame from his capture, causing him to turn away. But the old man patted his shoulder, assuring him that all was forgiven. At least for now. That gesture elicited a small sigh of relief, as faint as any cold-hearted killer would willing show his betters. He looked around to gaze at the guards, who unanimously recognized him as their brother-in-arms. They all had grim, yet determined faces, all eager to proceed with the next chapter of their grand crusade.

'White Mask'. The name sounded more hollow and irrelevant the longer they didn't have to wear it. Theatrics was over; it was time to return to the shadows. But if the world insisted on looking for an obvious enemy, then that's what the world would get. Very soon.

"…Rainbow will stop you."

The Bossman chuckled again. There was no point to indulge her prattling any longer, so he made his way out the bus. Nonetheless, he gave her one more rebuttal, seemingly for old time's sake. And as a simple courtesy, to the scion of the one who started this all.

"Team Rainbow will return to England tomorrow… By the time they've re-organized, we will already be well-entrenched and replenished… I just need to find out who's protecting them there."

"Caleb!", she called out. "You walk away while you still can! That old fuck will kill you too!"

The former Marine refused to look at her as he walked away, leaving her to a grim fate at the hands of heavily-armed guards. Privately, he was amused by her warning; Emily had no idea what she was talking about. Treadway knew better than to betray his own pride and joy, who also had the expertise to kill him a hundred times over in a heartbeat. Caleb still had a purpose in the grand scheme of things, and that was more than enough reason to remain by the geezer's side. The sentiment worked both literally and figuratively, as Treadway stopped in his tracks as well and smiled from behind. He looked at the young man with a wicked grin, right before peeling off a piece of his coat, ever so slightly. There was something small and shiny tucked within, recognizable to any soldier. Two pairs of eyes met, communicating without words.

It had to be done.

…

"Emily…", Treadway said. "…Do you know how your father died?"

Heeding his cue, Caleb pulled the object from the old man's coat. It was a gun. He turned around and pointed it at the woman, who barely had enough time to gasp in surprise…

...

*Bang! Bang!*

…Two bullets pierced her unguarded chest, causing her to jerk in her seat. Blood oozed from the gaping holes, trickling under her bare feet and forming a puddle. Her eyes went wide as she held on for dear life between wheezing breaths. Then, the bald prisoner walked up to her, casting one last menacing shadow over her crumpled form. He stared at her, remorseless and menacing. Her bravery deserved respect. Her treachery deserved to be repaid in kind. He raised the pistol a second time, aimed it between her eyes.

*Bang!*

…

* * *

…

 _I hope this is a good idea._

With crutches under both armpits, Ethan hobbled across the halls of the medical wing, catching glances from nurses and armed MPs. Getting here from Hangar Two was a challenge in of itself, but today would be his best chance to talk to her.

Stuck in his back pocket was the picture of one Erik Thorn. 'Maverick' to the boys at Delta and Centra Spike. A quiet and smart blondie with an Afghan-fetish, he'd be a decent addition to the Team. But if Six had to resort to a one-legged former Delta Force operative as a recruiter, then the Enhanced Domestic Defense Act was probably creating more problems that everyone thought it would be. Ethan would have to get to Fort Benning as soon as he was done with tomorrow's therapy. A tall order, given his injuries, but that was a concern for later.

His eyes scanned left and right, looking for the room that he needed to visit. It didn't take long for him to realize that his destination was only a few feet from him, with the door left slightly ajar. He could hear voices coming from within. She was awake. Rather than invade her privacy, the man opted to listen in from the outside.

"Do you think Monika will like my scars? …I mean, I'm only asking since you're a woman…"

It sounded like a cheerful guy with a German accent. His voice was slightly garbled, hinting at a vid-call or webchat. Emma must have had her PDA with her in the room.

" _Merde_ … You're due for surgery and you're still thinking about that?"

"You didn't answer my question… *sigh* Fine, I'll just pay the graphics-people to make me more handsome in the VR. At least I'll have that."

"Wait… Elias, was it you? Did you suggest those stupid head models we have in the simulation? The clown masks? _My face_?"

"Hahahaha! Well… Uh… let me explain…"

"You… You son of a bitch!", Emma nearly yelled. "I swear, when I get out of this bed, I'll fly to Berlin and strangle you!"

She had just been transferred to Fort Bragg a couple of weeks ago. Despite the harsh words, it was clear that she was in high spirits this morning. A good sign, Ethan thought. Breaking the news to her right now would probably have a dampened impact, make it more acceptable to her ears. Then again, there was also a chance that it would hit her hard and exacerbate her delicate condition. Only one way to find out. He took a deep breath…

*knock knock*

"Can I come in?"

"Ethan?", she recognized his voice. "Oh good, you're here!"

He opened the door and went inside, wearing a warm smile. She returned the courtesy with a cheerful face of her own, offering him a spot beside her bed. The sudden visit caused her to panic a bit, combing her brown hair with her hands and wiping off any blemishes from her face. While Ethan pulled up a seat, Emma quickly said her goodbyes to the other guy on the PDA, before tucking the damned thing under her pillow.

"You've been coming here often lately, _Monsieur_ Mallory.", she opened. "Can I get you something to drink? I have… water."

As a joke, she pointed to the bathroom beyond her bed.

"Nah. Just stopped by to say hello."

The scent of chemicals still permeated in the air, mitigated only by the fresh roses on the flower vase by the window. Her room was filled with greeting cards, letters, and official documents. It seemed that she preferred to spend her recovery working around the clock.

An admirable trait to have. Another thing that caught Ethan's eye was a page from a newspaper, lying on her lap. The same one that he finished reading back at the Hangar. Printed in clear font, the page narrated the story of that girl who died during the attack on Bartlett University, almost two months ago. Her picture showcased her youth, a cute brunette smiling from ear to ear while wearing the maroon sweater of her school. 'Madison Saint-Claire'. She was the one whom the Edda was supposed to take its new name from.

"Saint-Claire… that's the girl you tried to save, right?", he asked.

"Yes… Your senators didn't have to name a law after her…", the Frenchwoman replied in a soft voice. "…But at least everyone will remember her now. I plan to clip this to my new cubicle."

"New cubicle? You got promoted?"

"If you can call it that... Monika told me that I was nominated to Project Lead for 'Rainbow's Defense R&D Initiative'… You know, building stuff, like cameras, drones, and whatnot."

"Sucks to be you.", Ethan humored her.

"That's not funny. Don't you see? That means I'll be sidelined for most of our missions... At least until after I've healed…"

She let out a frustrated sigh, then playfully pouted her lips to show her disappointment. For a moment, Ethan thought he had offended her and quickly thought of a short apology. But she turned her eyes to catch his gaze, turning the angry face into an impish grin in short order. They both laughed…

Right then and there, he started to have doubts about this visit. It seemed so cruel to tell her now that she would be returning to England without him. Notwithstanding what happened between him and Emily. The more he thought about that one night stand, the less worthy he felt to be in this woman's presence. The 'Freedom Day' attack would've succeeded if he had been more careless. Then, there's the matter of that bastard Caleb nearly managing to kill her in Texas... The list of transgressions was long, the more that Ethan used hindsight to clear his thoughts. And the worst part, Emma was not aware of any of them. His heart started to pound, mimicking the unease he felt earlier.

But he had to suck it up. She deserved to know the truth…

…

"…Is it true that you're leaving?", she cut him off.

Alas, foiled again.

"W-Who told you that?", Ethan stammered.

"Not important. Is it true or not?"

Her green eyes grew fierce and assertive, demanding a straight answer. Before the man can spout a reply, she placed her hand onto his, locking them into a tight grip. The two of them stayed that way for a few seconds. It proved incredibly hard to deny her wish.

Was it intuition? The man was at a loss for words. There was no way that her foresight was borne from coincidence too, unless someone had done due diligence and put the pieces together. She must have known the truth already. Or at least learned parts of it. Yet, there was no judgement in her words. They were sincere and heartfelt, flowing with her compassion. Ethan returned her gaze, intently. He wished he had a better answer for her. Perhaps by taking a break from the Team, he could work out the guilt that still weighed heavily on his mind. Maybe then, he'd be brave enough to face her.

Though, perhaps even that was not necessary.

"If this about that maniac who tried to kill me…", Emma continued. "…Don't blame yourself for it. You didn't know you were being played."

He placed a hand on her shoulder, smiling.

"No, no... It's not that... Six wants me to take care of a few things down in Georgia. Probably just a couple of weeks."

His words brought a sigh of relief, returning her sunny demeanor. He didn't tell her the whole truth either. For now, it was enough.

With a beaming smile, she leaned forward and hugged him. As tightly as close friends would. She planted a kiss on his cheek, bringing him a small trace of the solace he sorely needed. The urge to return the favor was strong, but that was best for another time.

"Don't keep us waiting, okay?", she pulled away. "Without you… there won't be any cuties I can poke at. Except the girls, maybe."

There was only one joke Ethan could think of.

"Heh. I hope you're into women, then…"

"Screw you.", she punched his chest, lightly and laughing.

"…I'll be back. Promise."

She was beautiful. He wanted to see her again. But first, he had unfinished business to deal with. Rainbow must be strengthened for the storms to come. Their freedom wouldn't last. And he prayed for the strength to carry him through this new dawn.

All was well in the world. At least for now.

 _..._

 **\- THE END -**

 **.**

* * *

 **Author's Final Words and Comments:** Whew! Thus concludes what has got to be _the_ longest story I've done in… perhaps ever. Writing this has been a huge learning experience for me, as well as a harsh lesson on time management, and I am very grateful for the attention it has gotten for over a year. Thank you so much to everyone who read it, and doubly so to those who faved and reviewed!

I admit, this story is not without its flaws. To be honest, I feel like tying some chapters with the release of new Operators (i.e. Jackal and Mira, all the way to Alibi and Maestro) has actually been a bad idea in hindsight, as it made my story considerably longer. And as a few of people have pointed out, there were parts that dragged on with exposition and details. I'll keep all of these in mind for my next stories, though I am satisfied with the finished product.

Again, thank you very much for everyone who went out of their way to read my piece! I have another story in the works and I hope to release it this month. Stay tuned and keep on Sieging! ;)


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